On  the  Trail  of  Don  Quixote 


I 


. 

.  . 
~TBga.;gi_  %WJ\ 


ON    THE   TRAIL 

OF 

Don  Quixote 

Being    a    Record    of  Rambles    in    the 
Ancient  Province  of  La  Mancha 


BY 


AUGUST  F.  JACCACI 


\  \ 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

DANIEL  VIERGE 


NEW   YORK 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

MDCCCXCVI 


Copyright,  1896,  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


To 

William  C.  Brownell 


PREFACE 

£7*7/75  book  is  the  natural  outgrowth  of  a  friend- 
ship between  artist  and  author  —  the  one  a 
Spaniard,  the  other  familiar  from  youth  with  Spain, 
and  both  lovers  of  the  book  wherein  are  recounted 
the  adventures  of  the  good  Knight  and  of  his  faith- 
ful Squire.  The  writer  had  always  felt  that  the 
illustrations  of  Cervantes's  immortal  romance  should 
be  the  crowning  achievement  of  Vierge's  career,  and 
it  was  primarily  for  the  purpose  of  giving  Vierge 
the  opportunities  of  gathering  the  documents  from 
life  and  nature  necessary  for  such  an  undertaking 
that  the  two  friends  had  for  years  projected  a  jour- 
ney through  La  Mancha,  for  it  is  incredible  how  few 
changes  have  taken  place  in  the  home  of  the  hero 
since  the  days  of  his  wanderings.  The  customs,  the 
character,  the  manner  of  dress,  and  the  speech  of  its 
inhabitants,  have  remained  practically  unchanged,  and 
of  its  landmarks  Cervantes  has  made  such  vivid 
pictures  that  one  finds  it  easy  to  identify  them. 


Preface 


Through  unexpected  circumstances  the  artist  had  to 
go  alone,  and  less  than  a  year  after  the  author  fol- 
lowed minutely  his  friend's  itinerary.  As  it  is, 
pictorially  and  in  words,  this  book  is  "  un  lime  de 
bonne  foy,"  a  simple  record  of  notes  and  impressions 
from  nature.  The  text  telling  of  wheat -harvest  ing 
and  midsummer  sunshine;  the  pictures  depicting 
grape-gathering,  wine-making,  and  the  lowering  gray 
skies  of  Autumn. 

It  is  safe  to  let  speak  for  themselves  the  pictures 
of  that  master  draughtsman  who,  in  remaining  scru- 
pulously true  to  facts,  has  the  power  to  endow  them 
with  the  dramatic  feeling,  the  nervous  charm,  of  his 
artistic  personality. 

The  writer  felt,  more  profoundly  than  he  could 
express  in  words,  how,  in  such  a  community,  the 
remnants  and  voices  of  the  past  form  an  essential 
part  of  the  living  present.  He  wished  above  all  that 
he  could  have  made  his  rambling  notes  ring  with 
more  of  his  keen  delight  and  appreciation  of  active, 
open-air  life  in  a  rarely  varied  and  picturesque 
region  happily  as  yet  despised  by  the  tourist. 

November,  1896.  ^'    ^'  J' 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  I 

ON   THE   ROAD  TO   ARGAMASILLA 

PAGE 

Madrid — Ciudad  Real — Manzanares — A  Bodega — The 
Postal  Carriage— Argamasilla  de  Alba,  i 

CHAPTER  II 

ARGAMASILLA 

Gregorio— The  Parador  del  Carmen— Posada  Life— The 
Popular  Idea  of  Don  Quixote — The  Men— The 
Women — Religious  Feeling — Landowner  and  Ten- 
ant— The  Casa  de  Medrano — Don  Rodrigo  de 
Pacheco — Cervantes's  Birthplace — The  Priest — The 
Guadiana, 15 

CHAPTER  III 

THE  CAVE   OF   MONTESINOS 

Ezechiel's  Cart — The  Guardias  Civiles — The  Fulling- 
Mills — Ruidera — Lunch — Mule  and  Muleteer — Osa 
de  Monteil— A  Goatherd— The  Cave— The  Lagoons 
of  Ruidera 61 


Contents 


CHAPTER  IV 

MONTEIL 

PAGE 

El  Cortijo  de  San  Pedro— The  Hermitage  of  Saelices— 
A  Homicide — The  Lagoons — The  Castle  of  Rocha- 
frida— The  Taciturn  Shepherds— Villahermosa— 
The  Castle  of  Monteil — Pedro  the  Cruel  and  Henry 
of  Trastamara— The  Old  Romances— The  Re- 
turn Journey— Hunting— Another  Legacy  of  the 
Moors 85 

CHAPTER  V 

EL  TOBOSO 

The  Plain  of  La  Mancha— The  Venta  de  Quesada — 
The  Royal  Highway — Herencia— The  Feast  of  St. 
James — The  Church — Guitarists — Alcazar  de  San 
Juan — The  Wind  Mills — Campo  de  Crijitano — 
Siesta— Toboso— A  Model  Inn— The  Fanatic  Pro- 
prietor— A  Quinteria, .in 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  MORENA 

Ezechiel's  Adieux— Valdepefias— Almuradiel— Old  Jose" 
— The  Sierra— Viso  del  Marques— Casa  Teresa— 
The  Fiesta— The  Bull  Fight— An  Open-air  Theatre 
— Excursion  to  a  Mountain  Garden— Los  Molinos, .  173 


Contents 


CHAPTER  VII 

VENTA   DE  CARDENAS 


The  Royal  Highway— Typical  Mountain  Scenery— Venta 
de  Cardenas— Apprentice  Toreros— A  Family  of 
Bohemian  Fakirs— Despefiaperros— Andalusia,  .215 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Page 

The  guest-room  at  the   Casa   Teresa,  El  Viso.     The 
holy  images  on  the  walls,  the  little  statuette  of 
Our  Lady  on   the  fine  old  chest  of  drawers  are 
such  as  one  finds  in  all  nice  houses  of  La  Man- 
cha,  .....         Frontispiece 

Lunch-time  in  a  bodega.     Manzanares.     The  peasant 
laborers  who  find  employment  during  the  wine- 
making    season    come   from    all  parts    of  La 
Mancha.     To  save  the  little  money  they  make,  they 
sleep  in  the  doorways  of  the  houses,  and  live  almost 
exclusively  on    "  garbanzos"    and   coarse    black 
bread,          .......  2 

Head  of  a  blind  mendicant,          .         .         .         .         .      j 

A  Tobosan  woman  cart-pedler  on  market-day,      .  j 

The  court-yard  of  a  chalk  mill  at  Manzanares,    .         .      7 
A  postal  carriage  on  the  run  from  the  station  of  Arga- 

masilla  to  the  pueblo,  .         .         .         .         .      9 

A  peasant  of  Puerto  Lapice  peddling  fruit  in  a  street 

of  Alcazar  de  San  Juan,      .         .         .         .         .10 

A  "galena,"  a  sort  of  farm  wagon,  in  general  use  in 

the  Castilles,        .         .         .         .          .         .          .  -  13 

Gregorio,  the  tlamo"  of  the  Parador  del  Carmen,         .    14 
A  woman  of  Monteil,          .         .         .         .         .         .    77 


List  of  Illustrations 


Page 

Muleteers  in  the  posada,  Argamasilla.  Their  scant 
and  typical  costume,  short  trousers,  hemp  sandals, 
tied  with  ropes  round  their  legs,  kerchiefs  round 
their  heads,  and  "fa/as"  (belts),  is  the  same  all 
the  year  round,  except  that  in  winter  a  coat,  or 
1 '  capote,"  is  added, /p 

The  little  plaza  behind  the  church  at  Argamasilla.  In 
the  street  opening  on  the  row  of  houses  shown  in 
the  drawing  is  situated  the  Casa  de  Medrano,  .  20 

Scene  in  the  posada  stables,  Argamasilla,  .         .    21 

Weighing  grapes    in   the  court-yard  of  the  posada, 

Argamasilla,       .......    22 

Tobosan  pedler  of  puchtros  (glazed  wares),  .         .    23 

Gregorys  wife  buying  from  a  street-pedler  (one  from 
the  plain  of  Monteil,  judging  from  his  furry 
cap), .  .  2j 

One  of  the  rare  good  times  of  the  women.  The  "  ama  " 
visiting  a  friend.  The  scene  is  the  hall  or  pas- 
sageway behind  the  street-door,  which  is  used 
among  the  village  people  as  living-room,  parlor, 
etc., 27 

The  kitchen  of  the  Parador  del  Carmen,      .  .    28 

The  posada  of  Argamasilla  at  grape-harvest  time, 
when  the  grapes  are  carried  from  the  "galenas" 
into  the  big  stone  vats  where  the  wine  is  to  be 
made,       .  .......    30 

A  street  scene  in  Osa  de  Monteil,  the  woman  knitting 
in  a  chair  before  her  door  step,  perfectly  undisturbed 
by  the  pigs  there  squatting  about,  .  .  .33 

xvi 


List  of  Illustrations 


Page 

The  entrance  of  the  cellar  which  was  Cervantes 's prison 

in  the  court-yard  of  the  Casa  Medrano,  .  .  34. 

The  cellar  prison,  showing  the  old  door  (It  is  now 
used  as  a  sort  of  store-room  for  jars  of  wine, 
etc.),  ...  .  35 

Don  Rodrigo  de  Pacheco.  A  sketch  taken  from  the  head 

of  the  painting  at  Argamasilla,  .  .  .  >  37 

"  His  favorite  chair  in  the  barber's  shop"  A  portrait 
of  the  priest  spoken  of  in  the  story  ;  the  same  shav- 
ing-basin, primitive  old  lamp,  of  like  model  and 
fashioned  by  hand  as  in  Cervantes'1  s  time.  The 
fine  matting  on  the  floor  shows  this  barber's  shop 
to  be  the  "  Salon  Cafe,"  where  all  the  notables  of 
the  pueblo  gather,  .  .  .  .  .  .39 

"Feminine  curiosity"  The  posada  of  Argamasilla. 
The  screen  of  wood-work  through  which  the  worn- 
an  looks  is  essentially  Moorish,  .  .  .  .40 

The  priest's  niece  looking  down  from  her  balcony 
(Argamasilla),  .......  41 

"Feminine  curiosity"  A  woman,  rigged  for  work, 
her  heavy  outside  skirt  gathered  up  round  her 
hips,  interrupts  her  scrubbing  to  look  at  the  passer- 
by— a  rare  enough  occurrence  in  the  usually  quiet 
streets  of  Argamasilla,  .  .  .  .  -43 

The  plaza  of  Argamasilla  on  market-day.  An  autumn 
scene  when  the  air  is  sharp  in  spite  of  the  sun. 
The  first  peasant  merchant  in  the  foreground 
wears  a  "  cdpa,"  the  second  is  bundled  up  in  a 
"  capote."  The  church  shows  in  the  background,  45 


List  of  Illustrations 


Page 

A  scene  between  a  pedler  and  a  house-keeper,  showing 
the  interior  of  a  house  of  Toboso  —  one  of  the  oldest 
and  most  picturesque  houses  in  La  Mancha,  .  46 

A  woman  looking  at  peasant  pedler's  stock  of  pump- 

kins —  Alcdzar  de  San  Juan,  .  .  .  '49 

Dance  at  the  posada,  Argamasilla.  No  refresh- 
ments but  water  are  served  at  such  dances.  The 
orchestra  is  composed  of  guitars  and  a  violin,  but 
the  guests  join  from  time  to  time  in  a  song,  .  .  jo 

A  scene  in  the  posada,  Argamasilla,  .         .          .    33 

A  street  scene  at  Almuradiel,  showing  a  lot  of  freshly 
gathered  peppers  hung  up  to  dry  ',  .  .  -54 

Ploughing  in  the  highlands,  between  Monteil  and  Villa- 

hermosa,  ........  J7 

EzechieVs  cart  at  the  gate  of  the  posada,  Argama- 


A  Ruidera  street  scene,  showing  the  ungainly  and 
heavy  costume  of  the  woman,  skirts  pulled  up  on 
the  hips,  revealing  the  trousers  worn  under- 
neath.  The  two  ruffians  in  the  foreground  are 
types  of  shiftless  individuals  who  loaf  as  a  regular 
mode  of  life.  The  young  woman  in  light  clothes, 
with  a  broom  in  her  hand,  is  the  newly  married 
"  ama"  of  the  house  where  artist  and  author 
found  shelter,  .  .  .  .  .  .  .62 

Ezechiets  cart,  which  is  built  on  the  same  principle  as 
the  Sicilian  and  Maltese  carts,  and  the  "  araba" 
the  only  vehicle  known  in  Northern  Africa,  .  64 

The  road  to  the  Fulling  Mills,    .....     6j 


List  of  Illustrations 


Page 

A  characteristic  bit  of  scenery  on  the  way  to  Ruidcra,  .    66 
"  Arrieros  "  on  the  road  skirting  the  lagoons  of  Rui- 

dera, 68 

An  incident  of  the  artisfs  jotirney  where,  before  the 
Cortijo  de  San  Pedro,  the  swollen  lagoons  had  over- 
flowed the  road,  .         .         .         .         .         .    70 

A  street  in  Monteil.     The  furry  cap  of  the  figure  in  the 
foreground  was  the  Manchegan  headgear  in  Cer- 
vantes'1 s  time,      .  .         .         .         .         •    71 

A  woman  of  Ruidera,        .         .         .         .         .         -72 

Another  street  scene  of  Ruidera,  .         .         .         -75 

The  entrance  to  the  Cave  of  Montesinos,     There  is 
another,  which  is  some  two  hundred  feet  to  the 
right,  but  being  well-like,  it  is  impracticable,          .    76 
Episode  of  the  artis? s  journey :  Near  the  cave,    .         .    77 
Episode  of  the  artisfs  journey :  The  cart-driver  urging 
him   to  depart  from  a  posada  when  he  and  the 
family  had  hardly  sat  down  to  their  meal,    .         .    78 

A  bit  of  Monteil, 79 

Type  of  goatherd,  sketched  near  Villahermosa,     .         .    80 
The  lagoon  of  La  Colgada,  near  the  cave  of  Montesi- 
nos,  the  deepest  and  largest  of  all  the  lagoons  of 
Ruidera,    ......  •    81 

The  edge  of  a  lagoon,          .         .         .         .         .         •    8j 

The  ruined  interior  of  the  hermitage  of  Saelices,  .         .    86 
The  entrance  to  the  hermitage  of  Saelices,    .         .         .    89 
Skirting  the  lagoon  near  the  Cortijo  de  San  Pedro,       .    90 
An  upper  valley  of  the  Guadiana,        .         .         .         .    91 

Shepherds'  huts,  sketched  on  the  road  to  Villahermosa,  .    92 


List  of  Illustrations 


Page 

Shepherds  in  the  canon-like  bed  of  the  winter  torrent, 
between  the  valley  of  the  Guadiana  and  Villaher- 
mosa, ........  93 

The  Castle  of  Pedro  the  Cruel,  at  Monteil,  as  first  seen 
on  coming  from  Villahermosa  (the  'village  of  Mon- 
teil  being  hidden  behind  the  hill),  .  .  .96 

The  Castle  of  Pedro  the  Cruel,  from  a  street  in  Mon- 
teil,   97 

A  typical  afternoon  scene  in  a  street  of  Monteil.  The 
woman  beckoning  with  her  hand  in  the  foreground 
is  a  pedler  of  lottery  tickets,  .  .  .  .  99 

Approaching  Villahermosa,         .....  101 

The  Castle  of  Pedro  the  Cruel,  from  a  street  in  Monteil,  102 

An  episode  of  the  artist's  journey  :  Arguing  with  the 
driver  of  the  cart,  who  for  some  reason  does  not 
wish  to  start,  while  the  artist1  s friends  see  that  the 
proper  provisions  are  packed  in  the  baskets  for  the 
journey,  ........  104 

Street  scene  at  Villahermosa  :  The  old  duenna  in  the 
foreground  signs  herself  devoutly  in  passing  before 
the  holy  image  of  the  Madonna,  dressed  up  like  a 
doll,  and  set  up  on  a  little  altar-like  affair  against 
the  wall  of  a  house.  A  pair  of  crutches  on  one  side 
of  the  statue,  some  wax  feet  on  the  other,  show  the 
gratitude  of  people  cured  by  the  miraculous  inter- 
cession of  this  particular  image.  Three  of  the 
horribly  maimed  mendicants,  that  one  sees  only 
in  Spain,  are  lying  on  the  sidewalk  under  the 
statue,  .  .  .  .'  .  .  .  .705 
xx 


List  of  Illustrations 


Page 

The  entrance  to  Villahermosa.     The  barber's  shop  in 

front, 707 

Sleeping  quarters  of  the  artist  in  a  private  house  of 

Villahermosa,     .......  108 

The  dance  at  Herencia.    The  semi-civilized  dress  of  the 
men  is  typical  of  Herencia,  one  of  the  most  pros- 
perous towns  of  the  province  of  Ciudad  Real,         .  112 
The  Royal  Highway  between  Madrid  and  Seville,    //j,  /// 
A  solitary  mendicant  on  the  Royal  Highway,       .         .  118" 
Pedler  selling  his  stock  of  cotton  cloths  at  auction  in  a 

street  of  Herencia,        ......  121 

The  plaza  at  Herencia.     The  fonda  spoketi  of  in  the 
text  is  on  the  right-hand  side  of  the  picture.     A 
boy,  following  the  old  custom,  which  was  a  uni- 
versal one  until  of  late,  runs  to  kiss  the  hand  of  a 
priest  he  meets,  ......  122 

A  corner  of  the  court-yard  in  the  fonda  of  Alcdzar 
de  San  Juan,  where  the  grapes  ready  for  wine- 
making  are  heaped  up,         .....  124. 

The  facade  of  the  fonda  at  Alcdzar  de  San  Juan,   .  125 
A  bit  of  Alcdzar  de  San  Juan,  ....  126- 

On  the  outskirts  of  Alcdzar  de  San  Juan,  the  beginning 
of  the  road  to   Crijitano,  a  water-pedler   in   the 
foreground,  behind  him  a  characteristic  wayside 
sanctuary,  .......  I2& 

Ajutamiento  (City  Hall],  Alcdzar  de  San  Juan,  .  130 

In  the  Ajutamiento  Tower,  Alcdzar  de  San  Juan,  .  131 
The  wind-mills  of  Crijitano,  as  seen  from  the  distance,  .  132 
One  of  the  ancient  wind-mills  of  Crijitano,  .  .  135 


List  of  Illustrations 


Page 

A  typical  bit  of  scenery  at  the  mills  of  Crijitano,  .  ij6 

An  episode  of  the  artist's  journey  :    On  approaching 

Crijitano,  .......  137 

Sketched  in  one  of  the  upper  streets  of  Crijitano,  a  typi- 
cal arriero  in  the  foreground,  ....  IJQ 

Episode  of  the  artist's  journey :  The  entrance  in  Cam- 
po  de  Crijitano,  behind  his  escort  of  Guardias 
Civiles, 141 

The  distribution  of  bread  to  mendicants,  a  daily  occur- 
rence of  Campo  de  Crijitano  (In  accordance  with 
a  legacy  left  over  a  hundred  years  ago  to  a  church 
by  which  a  certain  amount  of  money  has  to  be  ex- 
pended in  giving  bread  to  the  sick,  cripples,  or  very 
aged  poor  of  the  locality) ,  .  .  142 

Facade  of  a  house  at  Campo  de  Crijitano,  dating  back 
to  the  Moorish  occupation.  All  its  details  and  the 
lower  porch,  supported  by  columns,  are  distinctively 
Moorish,  ........  143 

A  corner  of  the  plaza,  Campo  de  Crijitano,  the  church's 

principal  entrance  on  the  left,       ....  144 

View  of  Toboso  from  the  plain,  with  the  big,  squat 
church-tower  spoken  of  in  "  Don  Quixote,"  .  .  146 

The  entrance  of  the  posada  at  Toboso,          .         .         -147 

A  street  of  Toboso,  a  pedler  selling  honey  in  the  fore- 
ground, ....  ...  150 

A  street  of  Toboso, 151 

The  plaza  at  Toboso,  the  church  on  the  left,         .         .  152 

An  episode  of  the  artist's  journey  :  Guardias  Civiles, 

in  search  of  a  robber,  making  an  investigation,     .  155 
xxii 


List  of  Illustrations 


Page 

A  bit  in  Toboso,         .......  13? 

The  kitchen  of  the  posada  in  Toboso,  ....  /jp 

The  well  in   the  court-yard  of  the   "posada"   at  70- 

boso, ifo 

Maria,  one  of  the  daughters  of  the  "  amo"  of  the  po- 
sada, Toboso,      .......  i6j 

Posada,  Toboso  :    Detail  of  staircase,  with  charming- 
ly turned  baluster,       ......  165 

Posada,  Toboso:  Entrance  to  the  wine-cellar,      .         .  166 
Juana,  the  other  daughter  of  the  "amo"  of  the  po- 
sada, Toboso,      .......  167 

Picking  saffron  flowers.  As  in  Arab  countries  the 
women  do  the  work,  the  man  being  a  sort  of  over- 
seer,   169 

The  laborers'*  lunch  at  harvest-time   in   a   "  quinte- 

ria,"  .          . 171 

The  Sierra  Morena,from  the  station  of  Almuradiel,    .  174 
Dona  Teresa  washing,       ......  //j 

The  Sierra  Morena,from  the  plateau  between  Almura- 
diel and  Viso,     .......  777 

Episode  of  the  artist's  journey  :  Arrival  of  the  travel- 

ler's  cavalcade  in  view  of  Almuradiel,  .         .  179 

A  bit  of  El  Viso, 183 

Miguel  de  Cervantes  y  Saavedra.  The  traditional 
face  which  is  held  in  Spain  to  be  that  of  Cervantes, 
although  there  is  no  evidence  to  prove  it,  and,  on 
the  contrary,  strong  evidence  to  disprove  it  (It  is 
doubtful  if  any  contemporary  portrait  of  Cervantes 

exists] 185 

xxiii 


List  of  Illustrations 


Page 

A  corner  of  the  patio,  Casa  Teresa,  El  Viso,         .         .  186 

In  a  Manchegan  boys'  school,      .....  188 

Episode  of  the  artist's  journey :  Scene  in  the  Venta  de 

Cardenas,  .......  191 

Episode  of  the  artisfs  journey  :  The  departure  of  the 
artist's  party  from  El  Viso  for  an  excursion  to 
the  mountain-garden  spoken  of  in  the  text,  .  .  192 

The  Sierra  Morena,  from  the  plateau  behind  El 

Viso, /pj 

A  characteristic  bit  of  the  central  massif  of  the  Sierra 

Morena,  near  the  Venta  de  Cardenas,  .  .  196 

Lunch  in  the  little  garden  of  the  mountain,          .         .  197 

Episodes  of  the  artisfs  journey  :  Depicting  the  inci- 
dents which  befel  his  party  on  the  way  to  and  from 
Los  Molinos,  .  .  .  198,  201,  203,  204,  206 

Type  of  "  arriero  "  on  the  road,  ....  208 

The  peak  of  the  Panero,  one  of  the  bleak  mountains  en- 
circling Los  Molinos,  .....  209 

Episode  of  the  artist1  s  journey  :  Departure  from  Santa 
Cruz  de  la  Mudela.  The  mule  in  the  foreground 
has  the  characteristic  pack  -  saddle  used  in  the 
mountain  country,  ......  216 

Episode  of  the  artisfs  journey  :  A  scene  at  the  Venta 
de  Cardenas.  The  Maritornes  presiding  over  the 
cooking.  In  the  background  a  set  of  dangerous- 
looking  "  arrieros"  .  .  .  .  220,221 

An  episode  of  the  artisfs  journey  :  Alarmed  at  the 
roughness  of  manners  and  bad  looks  of  a  band  of 
"  arrieros  "  which  they  found  at  the  Venta  de  Car- 


List  of  Illustrations 


Page 

denas,  the  members  of  the  party  decided  to  spend 
the  night  in  the  open  near  the  lonely  building  of 
the  station,  where,  under  the  watch  of  their  two 
Guardias  Civiles,  they  felt  more  secure  than  in  the 
"  venta,"    ........  222 

The  famished  toreros,  watching  the  stranger  eating,    .  224. 
The  toreros,      .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  225 

Episode  of  the  artist's  journey  :    Night  scene  at  the 
Venta  de  Cardenas.     The  conference  between  the 
guardias  and  the  little  party,  when  a  hasty  de- 
parture was  decided  upon,  ....  226 

The  fakirs  coming  into  the  Venta  de  Cardenas,  .  228 

The  fakirs'  siesta  in  the  Venta  de  Cardenas.     In  the 
foreground  a  hand  waving  the  Manchegan  fly 
flap,  ........  229 

Night  scene  in  a  popular  resort  of  Seville,  .         .         .  231 
Los  Organos  in  Despenaperros.      The  railway  on  the 

other  side  of  the  gorge  midway  up  the  mountain,  233 
A  detail  of  Los  Organos,    ......  234 

The  "  arriero"  singing  a  "  malaguena,"    .         .         .  237 


I 

On  the  Road  to  Argamasilla 


On  the  Road  to  Argamasilla 


l 


T  was  night  in  July,  and  I 
was  bowling  along  toward 
the  same  dreary  plains  of 
La  Mancha,  that  were  the 
scene  of  my  youthful  tramps. 
Friends  had  just  warned  me 
most  earnestly  not  to  venture 
into  that  country  of  rough,  half-savage  folk 
unless  I  secured  an  escort  of  police  from 
whose  sight  there  must  be  no  wandering, 
"for,"  they  added,  "the  navaja  [the  knife] 
is  handy  down  there  ; "  and  the  manner  of 
their  speech  was  tragic.  But  then  they  were 
Spaniards,  and  must  regard  things  in  the 
national  way — that  is,  to  revile  natives  of 
other  provinces  than  their  own,  and  more 
particularly  the  inhabitants  of  unlovely  La 
Mancha,  the  most  backward  region  of  Spain. 
With  occasional  sleepy  glances  into  the 
future  (I  was  stretched  on  the  long  seat  of 
an  empty  carriage),  mingled  a  shifting  con- 
sciousness of  the  adieux  of  the  people  of  the 

3 


On  the  Road  to  Argamasilla 

Madrid  hostelry — doubly  cordial  in  expecta- 
tion of  a  promised  reward  for  the  safe-keep- 
ing of  the  luggage  left  with  them — of  the 
drive  through  the  narrow  streets  to  the  sta- 
tion looking  all  the  way  at  the  Madrilenes, 
out  for  the  freshness  of  the  evening.  They 
little  knew  how  glad  I  was  to  be  among  them 
again  and  how  delightful  was  to  me  the  ani- 
mated spectacle  of  their  streets.  I  remember 
distinctly  in  a  little  plaza,  over  whose  miser- 
able pavements  my  rickety  carriage  went 
bumping  in  unexpected  and  distressing  fash- 
ion, the  candle-lighted  booth,  frail  affair  of 
wood  and  paper,  where  I  stopped  to  buy 
delicious  oranges  for  next  to  a  smile  from 
a  swarthy  woman  dressed  in  rags,  her  hair 
a-tangle  but  with  the  condescending  man- 
ners of  a  princess. 

In  the  station,  stiff  and  gloomy,  a  por- 
ter, loaded  with  a  tiny  package,  my  one 
change  of  linen,  preceded  me  with  dignified 
steps  and  throwing  open  the  door  of  a  first- 
class  carriage  with  a  bang  that  re-echoed  all 
over  the  place  seemed  thus  to  apprise  on- 
lookers of  the  fact  that  here  was  indeed  a 
lordly  person,  one  who,  in  spite  of  his  dimin- 
utive luggage,  could  afford  the  luxury  of  the 


On  the  Road  to  Argamasilla 


best.      There  are  always   lookers-on    at  the 
departure  of  a  train  in  Spain.     Travelling  is 

such    an    unu- 

i      •  i  >*'      Vf~-^ 

sual  and  risky 

p  roceeding 
that  family  and 
friends  feel 
called  upon  to 
testify,  by 
their  presence, 
their  concern 
in  the  peril- 
ous undertaking.  No  doubt  prayers  are  in- 
dulged in  for  weeks  previously,  letters  are 
sent  beforehand  informing  all  of  the  fateful 
event.  Even  after  the  great  day  has  come 
and  gone,  how  can  the  household  or  the  little 
circle  of  friends  at  the  cafe*  resume  the  even 
tenor  of  its  way  without  hearty  expressions 
of  concern  and  wishes  that  all  may  be  well 
with  the  adventurous  one  ? 

What  a  contrast  was  Ciudad  Real,  the 
worthy,  because  so  very  poor,  capital  of  La 
Mancha  •("  Imperial  and  the  Seat  of  the 
God  of  Smiles,"  as  Cervantes  termed  it), 
to  the  bustling  New  York  I  had  left  but 
twelve  days  before.  In  the  early  morning, 


On  the  Road  to  Argamasilla 

pure  and  fresh,  the  crystalline  magnificence 
of  the  pale  green  sky  brought  out  in  strong 
relief  the  insignificance  of  the  little  town 
and  its  rambling  low  houses.  The  bareness 
of  the  whitewashed  walls  was  made  more  em- 
phatic here  and  there  by  some  iron-screened 
window,  or  a  door  bristling  with  nails  and 
ornate  locks  and  hinges.  All  was  strangely 
quiet  in  the  long,  narrow,  unpaved  street 
which  led  into  the  heart  of  the  little  town 
and  the  same  oppression  of  silence  so  strik- 
ing in  Arab  cities  falls  upon  the  traveller. 
Indeed  La  Mancha  is  Moorish,  country  and 
people.  The  Moors  have  left  their  thumb- 
mark,  the  traces  of  their  long  domination, 
on  the  aspect  of  the  towns  and  the  physiog- 
nomy of  the  people,  not  less  than  on  the 
character  and  temperament  of  the  inhabi- 
tants and  their  social  and  domestic  relations. 
It  was  Arab  hospitality  of  the  best  kind 
that  awaited  me  as  I  knocked,  a  stranger  at 
an  unseemly  hour,  at  the  house  of  the  father 
of  Carlos,  the  friend  I  had  just  left  in  Paris. 
Everything  was  done  to  make  Carlos's  friend 
feel  at  home,  and  my  new  acquaintances 
proved  so  much  more  helpful  than  our  na- 
tional representatives  in  Madrid  had  been 

6 


On  the  Road  to  Argamasilla 

that  by  ten  o'clock  I  was  able  to  continue 
my  journey,  having  in  my  possession  an  or- 
der from  the  governor  of  the  province  that 
I  should  be  furnished  with  an  escort  of 
mounted  police  wherever  I  might  wish  dur- 
ing my  travels. 

The  train  crawled  along  in  an  African 
landscape.  The  plain,  with  vegetation  the 
color  of  its  soil,  stretched  out  in  supreme  deso- 
lation under  the  blue  sky  filled  with  the  cruel 
majesty  of  the  noonday  sun.  No  settlement, 
no  houses,  nor  any  signs  of  life  enlivened  this 
torrid  desert  till  on  the  path  running  beside 
the  track  some  brown  specks  came  bobbing 
up  and  down  toward  us  —  a  characteristic 


On  the  Road  to  Argamasilla 

group  ;  ahead  the  man  on  donkey-back,  his 
legs  dangling,  his  head  thrown  back  and  a 
glimmer  at  his  open  lips.  Following  on  foot 
came  the  woman,  with  long,  swinging  strides 
that  sent  her  heavy  skirts  flying  in  rhythmi- 
cal and  recurring  folds.  A  young  donkey 
wandered  behind  his  dam  in  his  own  sweet, 
fitful  fashion,  all  ready  to  scamper  in  case  of 
pursuit. 

It  was  a  melancholy  contrast  of  sexes, 
which  the  woman  did  not  realize.  More  mel- 
ancholy perhaps  was  the  contrast  between 
the  man  and  the  beast  he  bestrode,  which 
looked  as  if  each  weary  step  would  be  its  last. 
Spanish  owners  of  beasts  of  burden,  knowing 
the  very  last  notch  of  fatigue  and  hunger 
their  poor  drudges  can  reach,  keep  them  re- 
lentlessly there,  thus  getting  the  most  work 
for  the  least  expense.  But  they  shrewdly 
allow  the  young  ones  to  grow  in  freedom 
and  comparative  plenty  so  as  to  be  strong  for 
the  ordeal  to  come. 

The  wayfarers  had  nearly  passed,  the  man 
singing  at  the  top  of  his  voice  and  looking 
straight  before  him,  when  the  woman  turned 
her  eagle's  profile  with  a  sharp  motion  and 
gave  us  a  long  blinking  glance.  In  all  prob- 


On  the  Road  to  Argamasilla 


ability  she  had  never  travelled  on  the  cars 
and  never  would,  and  the  poor  creature  must 
have  been  marvelling  in  her  dumb  way  why 
people  should  wander  so  far  afield  instead 
of  staying  where  they  were  born.  The  little 
donkey's  reflections  were  as  plainly  written 
on  his  countenance  as  if  they  had  been 
uttered  in  pure  Castilian  as  he  stood  a  mo- 
ment, an  expressive  silhouette,  staring  in  be- 
wilderment. "  Demonios  !  what's  that  infer- 
nal machine  about  ? "  was  his  conclusion, 
whereupon  he  whirled  around  and  scam- 
pered off,  flinging  his  four  legs  in  as  many 
directions. 

There  was  a  change  of  trains  at  Manzan- 
ares,  a  settlement  which  in  spite  of  its  an- 

9 


A  Street  Vender. 


On  the  Road  to  Argamasilla 

tiquity  and  of  its  poetical  name,  looks  a  hand- 
ful of  houses  scattered  hap-hazard  on  the 
bare  soil,  like  children's  blocks  in  a  nursery 
corner.  However,  it  is  alive  and  has  one 
of  the  finest  distilleries  (bodegas)  of  Spain, 
where  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  peasant 
workmen  eating  their  lunch  in  a  clean  mod- 
ern-built shed  by  a  row  of  formidable  jars, 
each  of  which,  I  was  told,  held  some  twelve 
hundred  gallons  of  wine.  To  this  day,  as  in 
the  time  of  Cervantes,  these  jars  of  porous 
clay  are  exclusively  manufactured  in  Toboso 
forever  enshrined  in  the  imagination  of  all 
lovers  of  romance  as  the  home  of  Dulcinea, 
the  one  true  love,  ardent  though  platonic,  of 
the  last  and  most  celebrated  of  knights  er- 
rant. Brick-yards  I  saw  and  the  many 
chalk  mills,  where  gypsum  is  ground  to  pow- 
der for  the  manufacture  of  plaster  of  Paris, 
were  old-fashioned  and  slovenly.  In  open 
paved  areas,  scattered  everywhere  in  and 
about  Manzanares,  threshing  was  going  on 
in  the  same  primitive  way  as  in  the  days  of 
the  Moors,  the  Romans,  or  the  Iberians.  A 
band  of  donkeys,  horses,  and  mules  were 
simply  hitched  to  a  flat  board  upon  which 
the  driver  stood  urging  his  team  round  and 


On  the  Road  to  Argamasilla 

round  in  ever-narrowing  circles  till  the  pile 
of  grain  lay  flat.  But  the  half-naked,  sun- 
burned young  drivers,  balancing  themselves 
on  the  narrow  boards  as  if  it  were  the  easiest 
thing  to  do  in  the  world,  looked  like  living 
bronzes  with  their  devil-may-care  air  and 
something  of  that  same  alertness,  that  poise 
and  grace  of  movement  one  loves  in  the  lit- 
tle Pompeian  figures. 

By  the  lonely  station-building  of  Argama- 
silla, the  one  bit  of  life  was  the  postal-carriage, 
a  four-wheeled  affair,  springless,  with  insecure 
board  benches  under  an  arch  of  plaited  straw 
covered  with  canvas.  It  was  the  hottest  part 
of  the  day,  and  the  hottest  day  of  the  year, 
the  driver  said,  but  it  did  not  persuade  him 
to  spare  his  team.  At  the  incessant  crack- 
ing of  his  whip  the  four  horses  raced  for- 
ward in  a  stampede,  raising  thick  clouds  of 
stinging  dust  which  blurred  completely  road 
and  landscape  and  produced  the  sensation  of 
travelling  in  a  furnace  at  white  heat.  The 
coach-dog  barked,  the  board-seats  rattled, 
while  the  vehicle  creaked  and  plunged. 
Here  was  old-time  travelling  with  a  ven- 
geance. 

That  part  of  me  which  is  monopolized  by 

12 


On  the  Road  to  Argamasilla 


the  artist — I  shall  call  it  my  Quixote  self— 
rather  revelled  in  this  excess  of  local  color, 
but  my  Sancho  Panza  side,  caked  with  dirt, 
shaken  and  bruised  by  the  jolting,  was  in  a 
deplorable  condition.  And  yet  could  Sancho 
do  aught  but  endure  what  could  not  be 
helped  ?  His  resigned  martyrdom  lasted  for 
an  hour,  till  a  stop  was  made  to  water  the 
horses.  Thereafter,  our  pace  relaxing,  occa- 
sional glimpses  could  be  had  on  either  side 
of  the  road  of  fields  of  scorched  wheat  with 
each  separate  stem  a  shining,  bristling  spear. 
Before  us  the  village  of  Argamasilla,  "  birth- 
place of  Don  Quixote,"  the  guide-book  says 
unblushingly,  revealed  more  and  more  dis- 
tinctly its  white  houses  nestled  under  the 


On  the  Road  to  Argamasilla 

trees.  The  purple  Sierras,  dreamy  sentinels 
of  the  plains,  stood  on  the  extreme  border 
of  the  horizon.  Above  it  all  wonderfully 
shaped  clouds  made  against  the  azure  back- 
ground an  exquisite  mosaic  of  translucent 
tones. 


II 

Argamasilla 


m> : 


The  A  mo. 


Argamasilla 


w 


E  entered  the 
pueblo  with 
cracking  whip. 
Not  a  soul  was  to  be 
seen  until  the  solitary, 
slouchy  figure  of  the 
inn-keeper  emerged 
from  under  the  mat 
covering  the  door  of 
the  posada — Al  Para- 
dor  del  Carmen,  Casa 
Gregorio.  Gregorio, 
hardly  able  to  express 
his  astonishment  at  the 
unusual  sight  of  a  guest,  looked  at  the  horses 
and  said  nothing.  But  the  driver  kindly  vent- 
ured an  introduction,  "  He  is  for  you,  Gre- 
gorio." "  Yes,"  I  added,  "and  for  some  time. 
I  hope,  Don  Gregorio,  if  I  may  have  a  bed 
in  your  house."  A  "  don  "  well  placed  never 
fails  to  please  a  Spaniard,  even  if  he  be  that 
most  independent  and  despotic  of  beings— 

17 


Argamasilla 


an  inn-keeper  of  low  order.  "  Of  course, 
Sefior,  and  why  not  ?  "  and  upon  these  slight 
preliminaries  I  followed  Gregorio  under  the 
straw  curtain. 

My  first  look  at  the  Parador  del  Carmen 
did  my  Quixote  self  good,  for  it  was  the 
most  picturesque  place  imaginable.  Here  at 
last  I  had  plunged  from  civilization  and 
nineteenth  century  to  the  condition  of  an- 
cient days,  and  apparently  reached  bottom. 
"  Apparently,"  is  said  advisedly,  for  later  on 
I  was  to  see  infinitely  more  primitive  scenes. 
However,  this  first  sensation  at  passing  from 
the  outside  glare  to  that  smelly,  purplish 
interior,  comfortless  but  plentiful  of  queer, 
dirty  features,  was  intense. 

After  the  manner  of  its  ancestor,  the  Moor- 
ish caravanserai,  this  posada,  like  all  others, 
was  composed  of  a  series  of  irregular  con- 
structions built  around  a  courtyard.  In  the 
room  in  which  I  found  myself  the  life  of  the 
place  centred.  Walls  and  pillars  rose  in 
confusion  and  arches  opened  unexpected 
vistas  into  dirty,  odorous  emptiness,  streaked 
by  stray  blades  of  sunlight.  Overhead  close 
rows  of  blackened  tree-trunks,  forming  the 
ceiling,  were  concealed  under  cobweb  gar- 

18 


Argamasilla 


lands,  and  hundreds 
of  flies  droned  a  cease- 
less, loud  murmur 
like  the  strings  of  a 
symphony,  broken  in 
upon  by  recurrent 
snores  from  limp 

bodies  coiled  in  corners  on  the  bare  earth 
and  by  the  sharp,  insistent  munching  of  the 
mules  at  their  forage  in  the  stables. 

Following  Gregorio  upstairs  I  hastily  ar- 
ranged for  the  exclusive  use  of  a  little  white- 
washed room,  fitted  with  three  beds  with 
bulky  mattresses  rolled  on  the  boards — for 
here  springs  are  unknown,  of  course — at  the 
exorbitant  price  of  ten  cents  a  day — it  was 
policy  to  propitiate  this  man  Gregorio,  the 
amo,  the  soul  of  this  establishment  —  and 
then  hurried  down  again  to  enchantment ! 


Argamasilla 


But  my  Panza,  rising  in  his  might,  insisted 
on  something  more  substantial  than  sensa- 
tions which  he  thought  were  not  to  be  in- 
dulged in  on  an  empty  stomach.  Unfeel- 
ingly I  had  to  disturb  the  amo,  who,  seated 
on  a  stone  bench,  his  head  between  his  hands 
and  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  was  evidently 


wondering  what  manner  of  man  was  this 
stranger,  dressed  as  a  countryman,  but  with 
a  queer  stamp  which  he  was  unable  to  lo- 


Argamasilla 


cate.  Panza  felt  elated  at  the  answer  that  it 
might  be  possible  to  have  something  to  eat. 
"  What  can  I  have  then,  amo  f  "  I  contin- 
ued. "De  todo  (Of  everything),  Senor," 
elusive  abbreviation  for  "  of  all  that  you 
bring,"  and  I  had  brought  nothing.  The 
fates  were  kind,  however,  for  with  the  help 
of  three  females,  a  boy,  and  an  old  dilapidated 
character,  a  sort  of  buffoon,  the  cojo,  neces- 
sary functionary  of  all  posadas,  whose  duties 
are  to  run  errands,  amuse  the  household  and 
be  the  butt  of  its  jokes,  a  complicated  tor- 
tilla was  slowly  manufactured.  In  a  little 
dark  room,  the  key  of  whose  carefully  locked 

door  dangled  at 
his  belt,  the  amo 
went  to  fetch 
the  ingredients 
which  composed 
it  —  eggs,  pota- 
toes, onions, 
herbs,  and  ham, 
besides  I  know 
not  what.  When 
it  was  finally  served  on  a  bench  and  famished 
Panza  seated  before  it,  every  one  came 
slouching  by.  Was  it  that  the  strong  odor 


22 


Argamasilla 


of  crude  olive-oil  was  too  attractive  to  be 
resisted  or  that  the  unusual  spectacle  of  a 
man  eating  with  fork  as  well  as  with  knife 
could  not  be  missed  ?  Whatever  it  may 
have  been,  they,  not 
unlike  a  pack  of  small 
dogs  watching  another 
dog  munch  his  bone, 
sat  or  stood  around 
observing  each  disap- 
pearing morsel  till  the 
oppression  of  these 
glittering  eyes  stead- 
fastly fixed  on  my 
movements  made  me 
feel  that  something 
was  expected  and  must 
be  done.  I  had  not  failed  to  offer  a  share  of 
my  tortilla  to  one  and  all  before  touching  it, 
and  now  the  psychological  moment  had  come 
which  must  transform  the  silent  watchers  in- 
to friends,  or  else  life  would  be  a  failure  for 
the  next  few  days.  With  my  best  manner  I 
offered  a  draught  of  my  wine  around.  It 
was  refused,  a  customary  denial,  that,  though 
going  against  the  grain,  is  nevertheless  re- 
ligiously practised  by  high  and  low.  A  sec- 

23 


Argamasilla 


ond  and  more  familiar  offer,  "  Vamos,  vamos 
hombres  "  ("  Come  on,  men  "),  brought  each 
one  to  the  mark.  Then  as  the  pig-skin  bottle 
passed  from  hand  to  hand  the  place  became 
alive.  Cigarettes  were  lit,  remarks  ventured, 
questions  asked  and  answered,  and  the  song 
of  the  flies  became  but  a  distant  accom- 
paniment to  human  voices  as  the  world  of 
Argamasilla  began  unfolding  itself  before 
me. 

Very  like  our  world  it  was,  yet  character- 
istic in  a  hundred  little  and  big  ways.  The 
manner  of  those  half  Moors,  who  like  the 
natives  of  southern  Italy  are  born  for  finess- 
ing, and  love  to  reach  their  ends  by  slow, 
roundabout  approaches,  was  fine  to  watch. 
After  learning  what  they  already  knew,  that 
I  was  a  stranger  (a  term  which  applies  to  any 
one  not  a  Manchegan)  they  dangled  a  va- 
riety of  bait  that  should  tempt  me  to  disclose 
what  manner  of  man  I  was  and  what  I  had 
come  for.  One  imagines  that  if  cats  could, 
they  would  talk  in  just  the  way  these  people 
did — slowly,  with  the  same  imperturbable 
glare  in  their  fixed,  brilliant  eyes.  Figura- 
tively speaking,  these  muleteers  and  inn  folk 
ventured  cautiously  one  paw  here,  one  there, 

24 


Argamasilla 


retreated,  advanced,  till  enough  facts  having 
been  secured,  the  pretty  game  ended.  Then 
having  learned  what  I  wished  to  do,  every- 


one  fell  to  giving  me  the  benefit  of  his  ideas 
and  experiences.  The  most  interesting  were 
those  of  the  chief  courtier  of  the  amo ;  a 
worthless,  lazy  chap,  marked  out  by  a  greasy 
old  cap  sporting  the  fatidical  initials  of  the 
bull  ring,  P.  D.  T.  {plaza  de  toros),  which 

25 


Argamasilla 


proclaimed  the  wearer  a  lover  and  connois- 
seur of  the  great  game. 

"  Yes,  Senor,  Don  Quixote  was  a  funny 
chap.  It's  a  great  book  though  and  known 
to  the  whole  world,  even  to  the  heathen  and 
to  the  English  and  the  others.  I  read  it  and 
found  it  droll  reading,  but  the  best  of  it  I 
did  not  get.  There  is  much  in  it  for  persons 
of  learning.  They  all  say  who  know  that 
the  science  of  the  world  is  there,  and  that 
when  you  understand  it  you  can  get  as  rich 
as  you  want.  But  I  am  ignorant  and  was 
only  amused.  Don  Quixote  was  a  very 
ridiculous  fellow  surely  !  Think  of  his  tak- 
ing those  wenches  at  the  venta  for  castle 
maidens  !  Jesit,  what  an  ass  he  was  !  " 

"  And  Sancho,  you  say  ?  Well,  he  is  like 
you  and  me,  he  wants  to  eat  and  sleep  and 
get  along  with  everybody  in  a  nice  way.  But 
then  I  don't  know  the  book.  There  is  some- 
thing in  it  I  can't  get  hold  of  which  makes 
priests  and  the  like  read  it  over  and  over. 
Don  Federigo,  a  lawyer,  who  lives  now  in 
Madrid,  says  there  is  not  another  book  like 
it,  so  full  of  politics  and  everything." 

"  Si,  Senor,  Argamasilla  is  full  of  Quixote. 
There  is  his  portrait  in  the  church,  and  his 

26 


\  \       V  \ 


\  'II     I  — 


One  of  the  Rare  Good  Times  of  the   Women. 


Argamasilla 


house  was  torn  down  only  a  short  time  ago, 
and  here  is  the  gentleman  (a  general  bow  of 
the  company  to  the  citified-looking  young 
man  who  then  entered  the  place)  who  has 
installed  a  fine  bodega  on  its  site,  as  perfect 
a  bodega  as  you  have  seen  in  Madrid.  And 
we'll  show  you  also  the  prison  where  Cer- 
vantes wrote  the  book." 


A  moderate  distribution  of  wine  brought 
a  score  of  idlers  and  notables,  who  kept  up 
the  discussion  on  Quixote.  And  in  such 

28 


Argamasilla 


pleasant  manner  the  rest  of  the  day  was 
passed.  Late  in  the  evening  I  sat  with  the 
amo  in  the  darkness  outside  the  door,  under 
the  sombre,  lapis-lazuli  sky  clustered  with 
stars.  A  trembling  murmur,  like  the  heav- 
ing of  a  calm  sea,  intensified  all  accidental 
noises,  the  barking  of  dogs,  the  jingling  of 
the  bells  of  the  mules  hurrying  to  their 
night's  shelter.  A  laborer  coming  home 
from  the  fields  passed  at  a  gait,  which 
one  felt  to  be  rapid,  though  the  sound  of 
his  footsteps  was  deadened  in  the  dust.  He 
sang  with  a  rich,  full,  uncultivated  voice,  a 
song  of  Andalusia,  one  of  those  Malaguenas 
which  are  replacing  the  distinctive  provin- 
cial songs  all  over  the  peninsula.  Each  verse 
was  a  complete  musical  phrase,  given  as  a 
trill  and  ending  in  a  long-sustained  guttural 
minor  note,  and  there  were  long  pauses  be- 
tween the  verses. 

Nor  with  thee,  nor  without  thee, 

Have  my  troubles  any  remedy ; 
With  thee,  because  thou  killest  me, 

And  without  thee,  because  I  die  of  it. 

The  voice,  alternately  crying  and  sighing, 
kept  its  male  ring,  while  the  pathetic  words 

29 


Argamasilla 


were  flung  into  space  with  the  most  passion- 
ate expression.  It  was  like  the  nightingale's 
song,  as  impulsive,  as  harmonious  with  the 
scene  and  hour,  and  long  after  the  voice  had 
died  out  in  the  distance  my  nerves  kept  vi- 
brating to  the  inexpressibly  wild  melody  as 
if  the  very  silence  was  still  full  of  the  echoes 
of  this  riot  of  feeling. 

Turning  in  at  about  ten  the  son  of  the 
amo,  eighteen  years  old,  is  stretching  him- 
self on  the  floor  over  which  he  has  spread 
his  mantle.  Under  his  head  by  way  of  pillow 
is  the  harness  of  his  mules.  "  Why  doesn't 
he  sleep  in  a  bed?"  I  inquire.  "  It's  no 
use,"  says  the  amo.  "  At  midnight  he'll  have 
to  go  to  the  fields  and  work.  You  see  this 
is  harvest-time  and  we  must  work  day  and 
night."  I  found  out  that  "  we "  meant 
everyone  else  in  the  household  but  my  host. 

The  following  days  gave  me  a  good  op- 
portunity to  see  truly  typical  posada  life. 
The  amo,  one  of  the  rare,  well-to-do  persons 
of  Argamasilla,  owning  vineyards  and  wheat- 
fields,  had  to  devote  his  early  mornings  and 
late  afternoons  to  overseeing  his  laborers. 
He  would  come  back  usually  at  nine  in  the 
morning,  with  his  son  and  some  of  his  men, 

31 


Argamasilla 


who  had  been  up  and  at  work  at  the  thresh- 
ing-ground since  as  early  as  three  o'clock. 
All  had  then  their  first  meal  in  common. 
The  long  knives  were  unsheathed ;  each 
man  proceeded  to  cut  a  thin  slice  of  bread, 
stuck  the  point  of  his  knife  into  it  and  used 
it  as  a  spoon  to  dip  into  the  dish  of  hard 
peas  and  cucumbers,  swimming  in  mixed  oil 
and  water,  which  was  placed  on  a  stool  in 
the  middle  of  the  group.  A  new  spoon  had 
to  be  cut  for  each  spoonful  and  much  dex- 
terity was  needed,  even  with  the  help  of  one's 
thumb,  to  secure  enough  peas  on  the  flat 
piece  of  bread.  The  amo  passed  the  wine- 
bottle  round  but  once,  the  men  indulging  in 
it  sparingly.  When  a  man  had  finished,  he 
would  wipe  his  lips  with  the  back  of  the 
hand,  get  up  and  go  to  a  stand  where 
the  water-pitcher  was  held,  lift  it  and,  hold- 
ing it  at  arm's  length,  take  a  long  draught, 
then  lighting  his  cigarette,  he  would  be  off 
to  work  again.  What  a  frugal  diet !  No 
wonder  these  peasants  are  such  healthy  creat- 
ures, solid  and  limber,  that  they  walk  with 
an  elastic,  light  step  and  in  repose  seem 
ever  ready  to  move,  suddenly,  without  ef- 
fort— the  whole  body  ready  to  spring.  Our 

32 


Argamasilla 


i 


• 


notions  of  Spanish  indolence  are  true  enough 
of  the  "  classes,"  but  the  peasants  are  as 
hard-working  a  people  as  can  be  found  any- 
where, performing  their  work  on  fare  which 
not  even  the  poorest  Italians  would  find 
sufficient. 

During  the  warm  hours  the  amo  remained 

33 


Argamasilla 


at  home.  A  couple  of  parasites  kept  him 
company,  smiled  at  his  jokes  and  feasted 
on  his  sententious  wisdom.  While  I  was 
staying  there  Gregorio  made  himself  a  pair 
of  shoes  and  his  friends,  enjoying  the  rare 
opportunity,  sat  and  watched  admiringly  the 

34 


Argamasilla 


progress  of  the  work,  occasionally  indulging 
in  a  bit  of  dialogue,  but  the  sturdiness,  the 
sombre  side  of  the  national  character  would 
reveal  itself  in  protracted  periods  of  silence 
and  repose  when  the  cigarettes  alone  were 
alive.  The  fact  that  Gregorio  was  doing 
something  became  known  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, and  other  idlers  would  come  and  join 
the  circle  from  time  to  time  and  marvel  how 
the  worthy  man  did  his  work  so  well.  Oc- 
casionally one  of  the  group  would  get  up, 


35 


Argamasilla 


wiping  his  forehead,  to  have  a  drink  of  water 
from  the  bottle,  with  some  kindly  meant 
word  to  the  foreigner — "  God,  it's  hot, 
Senor ! "  Flies  were  thick,  dogs  asleep,  a 
girl  was  sewing  in  a  corner  while  her  favor- 
ite cat  sat  on  a  stool  watching  her.  A  strap- 
ping laborer  would  walk  in  with  a  nod  and 
abbreviated  "  How  do "  toward  the  group 
and  disappear  in  the  stable.  Were  it  not  for 
these  happenings  the  posada  would  have 
been  as  quiet  as  the  town. 

Upon  this  dull  background  of  the  posada 
life  there  defiled  morning  and  night  all  sorts 
of  types  of  muleteers — fantastic,  wild-look- 
ing fellows,  who  strode  in  and  out  silently 
with  hardly  a  glance  at  anyone.  After 
taking  care  of  their  mules  they  would  sit  in 
a  corner  and  eat  the  hard  bread  and  bit  of 
cheese  they  had  brought  with  them,  or  lie 
down  to  sleep  anywhere  on  the  bare  soil, 
with  no  covering  over  them  and  but  a  con- 
venient stone  for  a  pillow. 

The  women-folk,  mother  and  two  daugh- 
ters, were  left  strictly  alone.  The  ama  had 
charge  of  the  cooking,  the  ingredients  for 
which  were  given  to  her  by  her  husband 
after  a  good  deal  of  noisy  bickering,  he  claim- 

36 


Argamasilla 


DON  RODRIGO  DE  PACHECO. 

From  the  painting  in  the  Church  of  Argamasilla. 

ing  that  she  did  not  make  the  best  of  what 
he  gave,  she  that  he  never  gave  her  enough. 
The  daughters,  modest  girls  of  pleasing  looks, 
were  working  all  the  time,  helping  in  the 
kitchen,  keeping  the  three  guest-rooms  in 
order  (when  said  rooms  were  occupied,  which 
was  not  often),  fetching  water  from  the  well, 
sprinkling  the  premises,  or  sewing.  Twas 

37 


Argamasilla 


all  work  and  no  play  with  them  unless,  once 
in  a  while,  they  indulged  in  quiet  games 
with  cats  and  puppies  when  the  watchful  eye 
of  the  amo  was  not  on  them.  It  was  impos- 
sible not  to  sympathize  with  the  ama,  poor 
old  woman,  shrivelled  and  dried  up  by  her 
slave  life  out  of  which  no  escape  was  possible 
without  extreme  mental,  social,  as  well,  alas ! 
as  physical  troubles,  more  than  she  could 
bear.  But  out  of  those  sunless  days  of 
harassing  experiences  she  had  unconscious- 
ly, perhaps,  reached  the  highest  point  that 
kindly  as  against  egotistical  and  brutish  feel- 
ings can  reach,  fighting  inch  by  inch  the 
battle  of  a  good  woman  against  all  that  self- 
ishness and  arrogance  embodies.  She  knew 
the  purely  temporary  advantages  she  could 
get,  that  she  could  go  no  farther,  and  that 
it  would  be  easier  to  condone  and  suffer  si- 
lently. But  she  kept  on  undaunted,  stub- 
bornly true  to  her  superior  instinct,  preaching 
by  example  and  by  words  what  was  right  and 
good.  How  she  compelled  my  admiration 
and  my  respect !  To  watch  for  a  time  such 
situations,  powerless  to  help  in  the  slightest 
way,  is  one  of  the  saddest  experiences  of  the 
passing  traveller. 

38 


V 

J 


His  Favorite  Chair  in  the  Barber  Shop. 


Argamasilla 


The  amcts  return  at  sunset  was  the  signal 
for  supper,  the  making  of  which  had  its  dis- 
tinct local  flavor.  The  kitchen  was  a  large 
room,  bare  like  the  other  rooms  of  the  place 
but  for  an  old  chest,  a  table,  and  the  hearth— 
a  square  of  low  brick  flooring  in  a  corner. 
Upon  this  hearth  dried-up  branches  were  set 
on  fire,  filling  the  room  and  transforming  the 

cook  and  her 
assistants  into 
witches  in  the 
midst  of  some 
infernal  incan- 
tation. Gre- 
gorio's  was  a 
well-to-do  f  am- 
ily,  having 
meat  once  a 
day  during  the 
harvest  -  time. 
In  ordinary 
times,  of 
course,  they 
had  it  but  once 
a  week.  The 
in  a  sort  of  soup, 
kerchiefs  around 


\ 


meat  was  always  served 
The  girls,   with   flowered 

40 


Argamasilla 


their  necks,  the  men  in  shirt-sleeves  with  red 
turban-like  rags  on  their  heads,  barefooted 
all,  dipped  their  wooden  spoons  democratical- 
ly in  the  same  bowl.  There  was  no  attempt 
at  conversation,  only  at  times  the  sharp  voice 
of  the  amo  would  tell  some  laborer  to  go 

41 


Argamasilla 


slow,  warning  him  that  he  was  eating  more 
than  his  portion.  The  hanger-on  before 
mentioned  would  sit  against  a  pillar,  his  old 
frame  bent  over  his  staff,  and,  keeping  his 
keen,  knowing  eyes  looking  steadfastly  away 
from  the  table,  appear  perfectly  indifferent 
to  what  was  going  on.  Dogs  had  more  rights 
in  this  house  than  he  had,  poor  chap.  To- 
ward the  middle  of  the  dinner  the  ama 
would  ask  him  to  join  the  circle,  whereupon 
Gregorio,  venting  his  displeasure,  would  make 
chilling  remarks,  such  as,  "the  door  of  the 
posada  was  as  wide  open  as  the  gates  of  the 
city,"  jto  which  the  gentlemanly  fellow  would 
answer,  mildly,  "Yes,  Sefior,  and  I  hope 
many  good  things  may  come  in  through  it 
besides  dust." 

Yet  Gregorio  was  not  as  bad  as  he  seemed. 
He  was  a  variety  of  the  Nouveau  riche  type, 
having  risen  from  the  humblest  beginnings 
through  an  unforeseen  inheritance,  and  pros- 
perity had  proved  too  much  for  him.  In 
spite  of  his  parvenu  arrogance  of  the  desire 
to  make  his  family  and  dependents  feel  that 
they  owed  their  existence  to  him,  he  was,  I 
believe,  rather  a  good  sort  at  bottom.  And, 
after  all,  in  judging  people  so  far  removed 

42 


Argamasilla 


from  us  by  their  traditions,  education,  en- 
vironment, their  dismal  isolation  and  lack  of 
opportunities,  one  would  better  pause  before 
rendering  a  radical  judgment. 

Such  was  the  routine  of  the  days  at  the 
posada.  I  was  told  that  once  a  month,  on 
market-day,  all  was  bustle  and  movement, 
and  that  a  dance  was  sometimes  indulged  in ; 


but  Sundays  were  days  like  the  others,  ex- 
cept that  the  men  improved  the  chance  of 
making  coarse  remarks  about  the  women  go- 

43 


Argamasilla 


ing  to  church.  There  was,  at  least  to  me, 
mighty  little  religion  and  a  great  deal  of  su- 
perstition among  these  Argamasilla  folk.  The 
going  to  church  was  the  one  diversion  in  the 
terribly  monotonous,  hard  life  of  the  women, 
but  the  men  preferred  to  sit  or  stand  around 
the  square,  or  on  a  friendly  doorstep  and  in 
the  same  breath  indulge  in  sneers  at  the 
priests  and  the  Church  and  at  professions  of 
loyalty  to  "Our  Lady." 

It  is  difficult  to  get  at  the  real  feelings  of 
these  people  on  religion.  The  contrast  of 
their  poverty  and  hard-working  lives  makes 
them  distrust  the  ease  and  comparative  plenty 
of  the  priests,  and  they  refuse  to  give  a  cent 
to  the  Church  unless  in  sickness  or  in  old 
age,  as  a  sort  of  investment  for  great  re- 
turns in  this  or  the  next  world.  After  a 
fashion  of  their  own  they  have  reverential  if 
not  spiritual  notions,  but  they  can't  help  see- 
ing the  difference  between  the  actions  of  their 
priests  and  true  religion. — "  No,  Senor — they 
are  in  the  Church  to  make  a  fine  living  out 
of  it,  not  to  be  its  humble  and  devoted  ser- 
vants. They  won't  pray  for  us  unless  we 
pay  them  ! " 

The  Procuradores,   representatives  of  the 

44 


,-...•  V       ^ 

V-tj..^,          r     ,.;     '       ll-;     !.     ....-.'       

-.'-— >#<H=^-;;/-=ir_<V '<•.;">,... -£ i-i'   -.LJi^.  ' 


I 


Argamasilla 


people  of  Castile,  had   given    utterance   to 
similar  feelings  centuries  ago  : 

"  Que  no  quieren  los  villanos  ni  el  vino  del 
Sacramento  si  viene  de  vuestras  manos" 

The  villeins  would  refuse  even  the  Sacra- 
mental wine  if  given  through  your  hands. 

46 


Argamasilla 


Argamasillans,  their  pueblo  having  no  in- 
dustry of  any  sort,  subsist  entirely  on  the 
neighboring  country,  each  villager  renting 
some  wheat  or  wine  fields  from  a  few 
land-owners,  an  aristocratic  family  in  par- 
ticular which  owns  the  largest  part  of  the 
surrounding  district.  The  best  of  the  crop, 
not  a  percentage  but  a  fixed  amount,  goes  to 
the  land-owner,  who  is  thus  insured  against 
bad  crops,  the  tenant  besides  paying  all  the 
taxes,  which  are  heavy.  On  one  side  no 
risks  are  taken,  and  the  lack  of  income  of 
the  bad  years  is  carried  over  to  be  made  up 
in  the  prosperous  years  ;  thus  the  tenant  is  in 
a  perpetual  condition  of  indebtedness  to  the 
landlord,  an  indebtedness  which  keeps  rolling 
up  with  usurious  rates  of  interest,  the  only 
rates  upon  which  consent  to  continuation  of 
the  lease  can  be  secured.  Landed  proprie- 
tor here,  as  in  the  Italy  of  fifty  years  ago 
(and  in  many  districts  of  Southern  Italy  to- 
day), means  usurer. 

This  iniquitous  system  is  another  proof,  if 
any  were  needed,  of  the  decadence  of  Spain, 
the  country  where  the  communes  conquered 
their  rights  against  lords  and  kings  as  early, 
if  not  earlier,  than  in  any  other  country  in 

47 


Argamasilla 


Europe  -  -  where  the  achievements  of  the 
Vaqueros  of  Asturia,  the  Hermandinos  of 
Galicia,  the  Comimmeros  of  Castile,  the 
Agermanados  of  Valencia,  the  Fiieristas  of 
Catalonia,  Aragon,  Navarre,  and  Biscaye  are 
among  the  most  glorious  of  the  contests  for 
individual  rights  and  liberty  in  the  history 
of  human  progress.  The  poor  Manchegan 
of  to-day  is  not  so  much  unlike  the  villein  of 
feudal  times  obliged  to  pay  tribute  to  king 
and  lord,  to  grind  his  wheat  in  the  mill  and 
bake  his  bread  in  the  oven  of  his  lord;  to 
live  in  the  castle's  shadow  with  no  right  to 
work  elsewhere.  It  is  true  that  he  can  take 
wife  or  give  his  daughter  in  marriage  with- 
out the  consent  of  a  master,  and  that  he  can 
make  his  will,  though  in  his  condition  this  is 
rather  an  empty  privilege. 

The  chief  glory  of  Argamasilla  is  the  Casa 
de  Medrano,  a  solid  stone  house,  whose  main 
portion  stands  probably  in  the  same  position, 
but  for  the  decay  of  age,  as  when  Cervantes 
was  kept  a  prisoner  in  its  cellar.*  There  is 

*  The  half-ruined  part  of  the  house,  connected  by  a  single  nar- 
row doorway  with  the  part  now  standing  in  good  condition,  shows 
plainly  the  Moorish  influence  on  the  social  conditions  of  the  time, 
for  it  was  the  prison-like  harem  where  the  women  of  the  house 
were  kept  away  from  any  possible  intrusion. 

48 


Argamasilla 


little  doubt  that  this  is  the  very  place  where 
the  design  of  the  book,  which  was  "  engen- 
dered in  a  prison  "  (see  prologue  to  the  first 
part  of  Don  Quixote),  was  first  moulded. 
Some  twenty-five  feet  by  eight,  and  seven 
feet  high,  with  a  mere  hole  for  window,  this 
unhealthy  cell  is  so  dark  that  when  the  orig- 
inal door,  still  partly  standing,  with  its  iron 
clamps  and  nails,  is  closed,  it  precludes  the 
possibility  of  Cervantes  having  been  able  to 
write  in  it.  But  to  say  this  would  be  to  the 
Argamasillans  a  personal  insult.  Cervantes 
says  that  the  , 

book,    as   the 
"  child  of  my 
wit,"  was  con- 
ceived    in     a 
prison,  which 
satisfies  the  Ar- 
gamasillans  that 
the  whole  book, 
even  the  second 
part,  written  ten 
years   later  than 
the  first,  was  en- 
tirely written  in  this  cellar! 

The  villages  of  New  Castile  fight  fiercely 


II: 


49 


Argamasilla 


for  the  honor  of  having  given  birth  to  Cer- 
vantes or  to  his  hero.  There  are  local  tradi- 
tions used  and  invented  to  prove,  by  long 
foolish  dissertations,  tod  many  of  them  in 
printed  book  form,  that  Cervantes  and  Quix- 
ote did  all  sorts  of  things  in  each  of  the 
villages.  At  a  low  computation,  taking  into 
account  only  the  most  persistent  claimants, 
Cervantes  was  born  in  six  different  places. 
Yet  he  lived  unappreciated  and  in  misery. 
And  his  masterpiece,  which  has  become  the 
property  of  mankind,  and  of  whose  three  hun- 
dred editions  more  than  half  are  other  than 
Spanish,  was  for  more  than  a  century  and  a 
half  only  a  sort  of  chap-book  for  the  million. 
In  Spain,  particularly,  it  was  regarded  as 
scarcely  deserving  of  attention  by  men  of 
letters.  The  recognition  of  its  worth  first 
came  from  England.  "  Spain  may  have  be- 
gotten the  child,  but  England  was  its  foster- 
mother  "  (H.  W.  Watts).  The  Spaniards 
have  since  scrambled  frantically  to  do  tardy 
justice  to  the  "  Prince  of  the  Spanish  Ge- 
niuses." Thus  a  tribute  has  been  paid  in  this 
very  spot  by  one  of  its  children.  In  this 
same  Casa  de  Medrano,  some  thirty  years 
ago,  Rivadeneyra  established  a  printing-of- 

51 


Argamasilla 


fice  for  the  sole  purpose  of  issuing  two  beau- 
tiful editions  of  Don  Quixote,  and  an  Infanta 
pulled  from  the  press  the  first  sheets  of  the 
large  edition. 

This  house,  with  its  precious  historical 
associations,  is  now  the  abode  of  a  village 
personage  who  alternates  the  functions  of 
postmaster  with  his  trade  of  cobbler.  I 
sometimes  gave  him  the  pleasure  of  leaving 
his  humble  cobbler's  bench  to  assume  his  im- 
portant governmental  functions  —  a  trans- 
formation he  enjoyed  as  much  as  I  did.  He 
would  receive  with  great  respect  these  mis- 
sives for  strange  countries  and  remain  pon- 
dering upon  the  fact  that  so  many  days  were 
needed  to  speed  them  on  to  their  destination, 
and  that  Americano  postmen  should  handle 
these  letters  entrusted  to  his  faithful  hands. 
He  would  follow  them  on  their  way,  and  at 
each  new  meeting  venture  opinions  as  to  how 
far  they  had  gone,  so  that  his  gratification, 
when  about  leaving  La  Mancha  I  informed 
him  of  the  safe  arrival  of  my  first  letters,  was 
great.  "  Thank  God  !  Senor,  our  postal  ser- 
vice is  perfection  ! " 

The  extraordinary  interest  manifested  in 
Cervantes  now  points  to  a  national  honor 

52 


Argamasilla 


£>- 


which  each  village  tries  to  monopolize.  In 
this  country  of  contrasts,  where  the  differ- 
ences of  climate  and  surroundings  have  made 
the  peninsula  a  land  of  well-defined  provinces, 
with  distinct  habits  and  costumes  evolved 
from  the  conditions  of  each  separate  milieu, 
patriotism  is  sectional.  "  I  am  not  a  Span- 
iard, I  am  a  Catalan,"  expresses  the  general 
attitude.  But  here,  in  La  Mancha,  villages 

S3 


Argamasilla 


are  up  in  arms  against  other  villages,  simply 
on  account  of  Cervantes.  Beyond  doubt, 
however,  it  is  proved  that  Miguel  de  Cervan- 
tes was  born  in  Alcala  de  Henares,  a  town  of 
New  Castile,  east  of  Madrid,  and  that  in  Ar- 
gamasilla the  " meagre,  shrivelled,  whimsical" 
child  of  his  genius  was  conceived.  There 
are  also  strong  probabilities  of  truth  in  the 
local  claim  that  the  original  of  Quixote  was 
Don  Rodrigo  de  Pacheco,  one  of  the  hidalgos 
of  Argamasilla  at  the  time  of  Cervantes's  ap- 
pearance in  the  town  as  royal  collector  of 
taxes.  It  was  by  the  authority  of  Rodrigo 


54 


Argamasilla 


that  Cervantes  was  imprisoned  in  the  cellar  of 
the  Casa  de  Medrano,  and  Rodrigo's  house, 
lately  destroyed,  corresponded  in  its  main 
points  with  the  description  in  the  book.  In 
an  old  painting,  which  is  preserved  in  the 
parish  church,  he  and  his  niece  are  kneeling 
before  the  Virgin  thanking  her  for  her  as- 
sistance, as  set  forth  in  the  quaint  descrip- 
tion at  the  bottom  of  the  picture : 

Our  Lady  appeared  to  Don  Rodrigo  de 
Pacheco  on  the  eve  of  St.  Matthew,  in  the 
year  1601,  and  cured  him — who  had  prom- 
ised her  a  lamp  of  silver,  and  called  day 
and  night  upon  her  in  his  great  affliction — 
of  a  great  pain  he  had  in  his  brain  through 
a  chilliness  which  had  fallen  into  it. 

The  good  priest,  Cervantist  by  birth  and 
choice,  who  had  accompanied  me  to  the 
church,  and  who  was  pleased  at  my  interest 
in  the  picture,  diplomatically  disguising  the 
object  of  his  argument  under  flowers  of  Cas- 
tilian  rhetoric,  tried  to  make  me  agree  with 
him  and  the  Argamasillans.  I  was  not  con- 
scious that  I  failed  to  realize  that  there  was 
Don  Quixote  in  flesh  and  blood.  The  high 

55 


Argamasilla 


cheek-bones  and  wandering  eyes  seemed 
Don  Quixote  enough,  though  the  sensual  full 
lower  lip  hardly  so.  But  later  on  I  became 
convinced  that  my  enthusiasm  was  not  free- 
ly enough  displayed  to  reassure  my  new  ac- 
quaintance, for  he  stuck  to  me  during  my 
stay  in  Argamasilla,  going  so  far  as  to  often 
abandon  his  favorite  chair  in  the  barber-shop 
to  convince  me  again  and  again  that  Don 
Rodrigo  was  undoubtedly  the  original  of 
Don  Quixote.  He  had  hopes  that  on  my  re- 
turn home  I  should  stand  up  boldly,  chal- 
lenging all-comers  to  disprove  that  impor- 
tant fact,  and  thereby  exalt  the  fame  and 
glory  of  his  town  in  that  far-away  America, 
which,  in  spite  of  all  past  Spanish  experi- 
ences, remains  in  the  popular  mind  a  mys- 
terious El  Dorado  with  wonderful  vegetation 
and  full  of  gold.  And  Americans,  in  spite 
of  their  queer  uncivilized  manners  and  mode 
of  life,  are  strangely  attractive  to  these  good 
peasant  folk,  who  consider  them  all  —  for 
there  is  hardly  any  knowledge  of  a  North  and 
South,  of  an  English  and  Spanish  America- 
half-breed  descendants  of  the  great  Conquis- 
tadores  and  the  Indians — some  sort  of  bas- 
tard children  of  Spain,  who  have  grown  rich 

56 


Argamasilla 


at  the  expense  of  the  mother  country,  and 
yet  whose  power  redounds  to  the  glory  of 
the  Spanish  family  ! 

My  friend  the  priest  went  so  far  as  to 
post  his  niece  at  an  upper  window  of  his 
comfortable  house  to  watch  should  I  happen 
to  pass  in  the  lonely  street,  so  that  he  might 
know  where  I  went,  and  go  and  button-hole 
me.  The  duty  can  hardly  have  been  irksome 
to  the  damsel — it  chimed  in  too  well  with 
local  customs,  for  at  the  approach  of  foot- 
steps in  the  usually  deserted  streets  the  lat- 
ticed windows  would  always  be  seen  to  blos- 

57 


Argamasilla 


som  for  an  instant  with  inquisitive  female 
faces.  This  curiosity  is  never  offensive,  and 
one  can't  help  feeling  thankful  at  being 
a  source  of  innocent  distraction  to  people 
whose  life  turns  hopelessly  in  the  same  nar- 
row circle.  Wherever  I  went  wiles  were 
resorted  to  to  look  at  me  without  imperti- 
nence. Some  fortuitous  duty  had  to  be  per- 
formed, the  street  had  to  be  sprinkled,  or 
the  woman  was  apparently  immersed  in  con- 
versation on  her  neighbor's  threshold,  gestic- 
ulating about  something  which  was  not  said, 
with  eyes  and  ears  fixed  on  that  most  un- 
usual sight — an  Americano  in  Argamasilla. 

On  the  last  evening  before  my  first  sally, 
Gregorio  and  I  had  a  walk  through  the  vil- 
lage, kicking  the  thick-lying  dust  and  knock- 
ing our  feet  on  the  rough  stones  of  the  ir- 
regular streets  without  sidewalks.  Here  and 
there  stood  a  stranded  cart,  groups  sat  si- 
lently before  open  doors — the  lights,  in  that 
harmony  of  gray  and  purple,  pitching  in  a 
warm  note  like  a  gaudy  flower  in  the  dark 
hair  of  an  Andalusian  girl.  The  customary 
salutations  were  exchanged  in  a  low,  grave 
voice  —  *  Go  your  way  with  God  "  accom- 
panied us  on  our  way.  We  sat  on  the  little 

58 


Argamasilla 


bridge   which    spans  that  curious  river  the 
Guadiana,  and  in  the  dense  foliage  over  us 
the  nightingales  were  singing,  and  little  falls 
near  by  murmuring  an  accompaniment.    Gre- 
gorio  told  many 
a  story  which  had 
the    musty   per- 
fume of  bygone, 
forgotten   days, 
about    this   won- 
derful Guadiana, 
that  had  its  birth 
in    swamps,    and 
after  running  for 
miles  loses  itself, 
to  reappear  seven 
leagues  farther 
on.     "Very  mysterious,  isn't  it?"  says  my 
companion.     "  Once   one   of   the   kings   of 
Spain  was  talking  about  his  country  with 
the  king  of  France,  and  to  his  chagrin  was 
finding  that  all  that  Spain  had,  France  also 
had.     It  had  olives  and  wheat  and  grapes, 
and  everything  that  Spain  had,  until  the  king 
thought  of  the  Guadiana,  and  he  said  :   *  I 
have  a  bridge  seven  leagues  in  length.'     The 
poor   French  king  had  nothing   further  to 


50 


Argamasilla 


say."  There,  come  down  by  way  of  mouth 
through  generations,  altered  but  clearly  rec- 
ognizable, was  the  story  of  the  Ambassador 
Rui  Gonzalez  de  Clavijo,  sent  by  Enrique 
III.  to  Tamerlane,  and  who,  having  in  mind 
this  same  Guadiana,  boasted  that  in  his  mas- 
ter's dominions  was  a  bridge  forty  miles 
wide,  on  the  top  of  which  two  hundred 
thousand  herd  of  cattle  could  graze. 


Ill 

The  Cave  of  Montesinos 


The  Cave  of  Montesinos 

I  WAS  fortunate  during  my  first  week  in 
Argamasilla  in  enlisting  the  services  of 
Ezechiel,  an  honest  old  fellow,  possessor 
of  a  mule  cart,  and  fairly  acquainted  with 
the  surrounding  districts.  For  many  days 
thereafter  Ezechiel  and  I  rambled  over  this 
poor  land  of  La  Mancha ;  and  if  I  had  to 
pay  for  my  delightful  experiences  in  some 
bodily  discomforts,  they  were  part  of  the 
game  and  were  more  than  compensated  for 
by  constant  intercourse  with  plain,  old-time 
folks,  by  the  superb  scenery,  with  its  ruined 
castles  and  caravansaries,  relics  of  feudal  and 
Moorish  days,  by  the  ancient  customs  and 
the  legends  which,  like  ivy  on  a  gnarled  oak- 
tree,  cling  to  every  bit  of  this  historical  and 
romantic  land. 

It  is  a  little  before  two  in  the  morning 
when,  for  the  first  time,  I  find  Ezechiel  at 
the  posada  door  loading  provisions,  hard- 
boiled  eggs,  loaves  of  bread,  skin  bottles  of 
wine  and  water,  and  the  inseparable  compan- 

63 


The  Cave  of  Montesinos 


ion  of  every  Manchegan,  the  shot-gun,  in 
his  two-wheeled  cart.  A  few  steps,  and  like 
Panza  and  Quixote  "we  sally  forth  from  the 
village  without  any  person  seeing  us,"  and 
are  in  the  wide,  flat  country.  In  spite  of 
the  darkness,  a  sort  of  translucence  perme- 
ates sky  and  earth,  giving  to  the  scene  the 
weird  aspect  of  a  country  of  dreams.  The 
faint,  shadowy  silhouettes  of  the  escort  of 
two  mounted  police,  "  Guardias  Civiles,"  bob 
up  and  down  before  us  like  intangible  im- 
ages. Our  mule  vanishes  in  the  gloom  ;  the 
only  things  truly  alive  are  two  stars — two 
watching  eyes  peeping  above  the  horizon. 
Stretched  on  one  of  the  two  benches  which 


The  Cave  of  Montesinos 


line  the  cart,  I  doze  peacefully,  lulled  by 
the  subdued  breathing  of  old  mother  earth 
in  her  sleep — the  grand  lullaby  made  by  all 
the  infinitesimal  noises  of  nature,  above 
which  the  fitful  jingling  of  the  bells  played 
a  delightful  silvery  cadence. 

Steadfastly,  up  and  down  invisible  hills, 
the  cart  advances  on  its  monotonous  jour- 
ney into  the  solitude,  creaking  like  a  creat- 
ure in  pain.  Once  in  awhile,  like  a  warrior 
preparing  for  the  assault,  our  mule  stops  an 
instant,  gathering  strength  to  bump  against 
and  surmount  some  inevitable  obstacle,  and 
then  follows  a  bounce  on  the  rude  benches 
and  occasionally  a  landing  on  the  rope 


The  Cave  of  Montesinos 


netting    which    forms    the    bottom    of    the 
cart. 

As  day  approaches,  the  country  reveals  it- 
self in  a  series  of  slowly  changing  panoramas. 
The  dreary  plain  is  left  behind,  and  the  sav- 


age and  picturesque  scenery  of  the  Monte 
now  surrounds  us.  How  naturally  the  two 
pathetic  figures  of  Quixote  and  Sancho  loom 
up  in  this  admirable  setting,  and  harmonize 
with  the  grandiose,  severe  lines  of  the  rocky 
hills  surmounted  by  ruins.  We  pass  by 
scores  of  batanes  (fulling-mills),  which  Cer- 
vantes may  have  had  in  mind  in  his  advent- 

66 


The  Cave  of  Montesinos 


ure  of  the  Fulling-Hammers  (Chapter  XX.), 
for  the  surroundings  of  rocks  and  tall  trees 
chime  well  with  his  description.  The  peas- 
ants who  manned  them  in  Cervantes's  time 
must  have  been  in  appearance,  type  of  face 
and  costume,  very  like  the  brawny  Arab- 
looking  fellows  we  meet,  and  the  range  of 
ideas  and  style  of  living  of  these  cannot  be 
essentially  different  from  that  of  their  ances- 
tors. The  mills  themselves,  bearing  signs 
of  extreme  old  age,  make  pretty  pictures, 
with  their  dripping  moss  and  maiden-hair 
garments.  It  would  be  agreeable  to  think 
they  are  the  same  batanes  which  gave  such 
tremendous  sensations  to  the  worthy  Knight 
and  frightened  his  faithful  Squire,  but  the 
impossible  adventures  of  the  hero  of  romance 
have  been  made  to  agree  with  the  stern  facts 
of  geography,  and  in  consequence  we  know, 
as  Cervantes  probably  did  not,  that  the  ba- 
tanes he  described  were  located  in  a  definite 
place  east  of  Ciudad  Real. 

The  roadway  begins  to  skirt  the  lagoons  of 
Ruidera,  the  chain  of  lapis  lazuli  mirrors  set 
in  crowns  of  luxuriant  rushes,  formed  by 
the  Guadiana,  the  mighty  river  of  Don  Quix- 
ote's country.  Toward  nine,  while  catching 

67 


•  $fttj^;uvw^v 

Upt 

17  x--  «.'-^  •"'••.' 

/    ;w 


The  Cave  of  Montesinos 


a  glimpse  of  a  waterfall,  we  stumble  on  Ru- 
idera,  a  handful  of  straggling  houses  singu- 
larly dwarfed  by  the  huge  ruins  of  a  palace 
once  one  of  the  lordly  seats  of  the  mighty 
Order  of  San  Juan,  whom  Cervantes  served 
in  the  lonely  capacity  of  tax  collector.  As 
we  enter  the  one  street  ("  street "  by  courtesy 
and  for  want  of  a  fit  name  to  describe  it) 
I  suddenly  realize  why  Argamasillans  have 
reason  to  be  proud  of  their  village.  Arga- 
masilla  is  a  modern,  civilized  city  compared 
to  these  tumble -down  houses,  with  doors 
broken  or  hanging  by  ropes  or  propped  up 
by  stones,  or  gates  without  doors,  and  the 
shocking  display  of  filth  and  decay  every- 
where. 

The  cart  is  left  to  sizzle  in  the  sun.  Our 
Guardias  hold  court,  surrounded  by  effusive 
villagers,  while  I  seek  refuge  from  the  heat 
in  the  house  which  gives  shelter  to  travel- 
lers. A  woman-servant,  young,  faded,  and 
wrinkled,  her  clothes  bundled  about  her 
hips,  her  hair  a-tangle,  sets  out  to  brush  away 
the  inches  of  venerable  dust  which  cover  the 
beaten  earth  flooring.  She  moves  about  with 
the  queer,  nervous  movements  of  a  mountain 
goat,  and,  when  I  order  her  to  desist,  jumps 


The  Cave  of  Montesinos 


as  if  struck  and  gives  a  wild,  frightened  look 
around.  Ezechiel  has  a  hard  time  to  entice 
her  to  the  courtyard  and  open-air  cooking. 
The  whitewashed  walls  of  the  show-room, 
the  one  room  of  this  hostelry  of  the  lowest 
order,  the  ceiling  of  smoked  logs,  the  jugs 
and  dried-skin  bottles  in  the  corner,  the  har- 
ness hung  on  a  nail,  vie  with  each  other  in 
hiding  their  identity  under  alternate  coats  of 
dirt,  soot,  and  dust.  Two  impossible  sofas 
parade  as  ornaments  more  than  as  useful  ob- 
jects, their  flat  cushions  and  pillows,  filled 
with  rags,  keeping  faithfully  the  impressions 
of  the  last  impact.  There  are  no  windows, 
but  a  cool  blue  light  falls  from  the  chimney- 
shaft,  and  blades  of  sunlight  coming  through 
the  holes  and  cracks  of  the  closed  door  streak 


70 


The  Cave  of  Montesinos 


the  shadow,  making  the  millions  of  whirling 
atoms  glisten. 

While  preparations  for  the  dinner  are  going 
on  outside,  the  Guardias  drop  in  and  regale 
me  with  as  pretty  a  scene  from  the  Spanish 
picaresque  novels  as  one  could  wish  for. 
They  are,  of  course,  above  tips  of  any  kind 
and  are  strictly  enjoined  to  partake  but  of 
their  own  fare,  which  they  carry  with  them 
everywhere  in  their  journeys.  But  here  what 
a  godsend  is  the  rare  traveller  able  to  com- 
mand— meat  for  his  dinner  and  probably, 
also,  wine  in  profusion.  And  how  can  one 
help  being  near  the  traveller  when  meal-time 

71 


The  Cave  of  Montesinos 


approaches  to  make 
one's  self  agreea- 
ble, saying  all  sorts 
of  nice  things  with 
a  smile  which  un- 
consciously discov- 
ers the  rows  of 
short,  sharp,  white 
teeth  ready  for  the 
fray !  Honest  Eze- 
chiel  had  warned 
me  against  the 
snares  sometimes 
set  on  such  occa- 
sions, yet  I  couldn't 
but  take  pleasure 
in  giving  in  at  once 
(a  great  mistake), 
telling  them  that,  of 
course,  I  hoped  they 
would  accept  their 

share  of  my  meal.  The  prey  proving  so  easy, 
straightway  the  scope  of  my  new  friends' 
and  parasites'  operations  grew  to  large  pro- 
portions. Why  shouldn't  they  rearrange  the 
details  of  my  trip  so  as  to  give  themselves 
as  little  travelling  and  as  many  feasts  as  pos- 

72 


The  Cave  of  Montesinos 


sible  ?  The  most  captivating  reasons,  en- 
livened with  Castilian  pearls  of  rhetoric  and 
flowery  and  courteous  expressions,  flowed  as 
naturally  from  their  lips  as  water  from  a 
spring.  I  enjoyed  it  for  a  half  hour,  till  it 
became  clear  that  the  stranger,  who  was  fall- 
ing from  the  dignity  of  Excellencia  to  that 
of  Caballero,  and  finally  of  plain  Sefior,  had 
reasons,  and  good  ones,  though  my  friends 
couldn't  understand  them,  for  keeping  to  his 
original  plan.  Nevertheless  they  kindly  stood 
on  each  side  of  me  during  my  repast,  and 
valiantly  helped  fight  the  swarms  of  flies 
which  threatened  each  morsel.  I  expected 
my  huge  skin  wine-bottle  to  be  in  a  state  of 
collapse  at  the  end  of  their  dinner,  but  was 
hardly  prepared  for  the  Guardias's  hasty  de- 
parture and  return  with  an  enormous  pan 
of  wine-punch  some  villagers  had  prepared 
for  them,  a  performance  which  was  repeated 
several  times.  The  Guardia  Civil,  this  flower 
of  special  Spanish  growth,  half-military  and 
half-police,  which  has  worked  by  its  esprit  de 
corps  so  great  a  change  in  the  brigand-ridden 
provinces  of  Spain,  and  has  justly  deserved 
the  honored  title  of  terror  of  evil-doers,  is 
apt  at  times,  when  in  the  back  country 

73 


The  Cave  of  Montesinos 


where  communications  are  difficult  and  the 
ignorance  and  fear  of  the  peasants  insure 
immunity,  to  relax  somewhat  from  its  high 
estate  and  indulge  in  such  undignified  per- 
formance as  this.  Yet  the  failings  of  a  few 
do  not  impair  the  great  value  and  high  char- 
acter of  a  body  of  some  twenty-eight  thou- 
sand men,  which,  taken  in  its  ensemble,  is 
admirably  disciplined  and  renders  the  most 
valuable  services. 

When  I  got  ready  to  start  off  again  toward 
noon  my  worthy  protectors  were  lying  limp 
in  all  their  imposing  military  paraphernalia 
on  the  sofas  above  described,  snoring  like 
angry  bulls,  and  I  was  grateful  at  being  able 
to  go  without  them. 

As  we  march  away  from  the  river  we  find 
the  country  savage  and  desolate.  Red  earth- 
mounds  surround  us  for  hours  with  peculiar 
clusters  of  low,  stunted  trees,  looking  like 
flocks  of  sheep.  The  thermometer  marks 
100  degrees  in  the  shade,  yet  the  furnace 
air  is  dry,  full  of  ozone,  and  rich  with  the 
pungent  aroma  of  wild  mountain  plants. 
In  a  delicious  monotony  of  surroundings  the 
hours  pass,  enlivened  only  by  the  songs  of 
the  whirring,  bustling,  leaping  locusts.  ^  How 

74 


The  Cave  of  Montesinos 


true  is  the  Spanish  equivalent  for  our  "  dog- 
days  " — canta  la  chicharra — the  song  of  the 
locusts  and  cicadas  rejoicing  in  the  heat, 
which  serves  but  to  make  the  silence  of  the 
solitude  heard.  In  the  good  places  the 
springless,  unwieldy  cart,  with  its  solid  iron 
axle,  moves  in  a  constant  tremor,  enlivened 
by  occasional  bumps.  In  bad  places  the 
process  is  reversed,  and  occasional  rumbling 
lulls  are  the  momentary  diversions  to  the 
continual  rough,  bumping  dance.  Our  wiry 
little  mule  bravely  marches  on  at  an  even 
pace,  and  picking  her  way  daintily  among  the 
loose  stones  carries  her  load  over  the  rough 
road  as  if  it  were  mere  play.  She  is  a  good 
representative  of  her  class,  while  her  master 

76 


The  Cave  of  Montesinos 


is  a  rare  specimen  of 
the  muleteer  fraternity. 
He  has  not  even  a  whip, 
but  his  mule  under- 
stands well  the  mean- 
ing of  his  words.  Up 

the  steep  hill,  he  keeps  up  a  constant  stream 
of  interjections  to  encourage  her — "  Hija!" 
"  Morena  !  "  "  Daughter  !  "  "  Brunette  !  " 
"One  more,  daughter!"  "Good!"  "Go 
ahead  ! "  "  Beauty  !  "  "  Aya  !  "  "  Arrarha  !  " 
— "  There  we  are,"  the  brave  brute  making 
a  visible  effort  at  each  word.  When  the 
top  is  reached  Ezechiel  rewards  her  with 
"  Guapa"  "  Beauty,"  "Take  it  gently  now, 
beauty,"  and  with  his  quiet  voice  falls  into 
praising  the  mule,  which  is  his  fortune.  He 
could  verily  say  of  her  what  Sancho  said  of 
his  ass :  "  O  child  of  my  bowels,  born  in 


77 


The  Cave  of  Montesinos 


my  very  home,  the  delight  of  my  wife,  the 
envy  of  my  neighbors,  the  sharer  of  my 
burdens,  and,  beyond  all,  the  support  of 
half  my  person  ;  for,  with  six  and  twenty 
maravedis,  which  thou  earnest  for  me  daily, 
do  I  make  half  my  living."  Ezechiel  has 
a  wife,  and  if  he  does  not  name  her  (for 
that  would  be  contrary  to  custom),  one  feels 
that  she  occupies  the  whole  background  of 
his  thoughts.  I  learn  that  they  are  very 
much  concerned  now,  for  the  pig  they  are 
fattening  does  not  come  on  well.  Like  all 
Manchegos,  he  rents  a  little  field  from  some 
rich  land-owner,  which  supplies  potatoes  and 
wheat  to  pay  the  land-owner,  and  enough 
besides,  when  all  goes  well,  to  keep  the  wolf 
from  the  door. 


The  Cave  of  Montesinos 


To  get  an  idea  of  the  smallness  of  Eze- 
chiel's  income  one  has  but  to  know  that  the 
only  money  which  comes  into  the  family  is 
earned  by  his  occasional  journeys  with  his 
cart,  doing  errands  and  hauling  freight.  He 
has  an  average  of  a  month  out  of  the  year 
at  such  work,  and  about  four  pesetas  a  day 
(at  the  time  of  my  journey  less  than  sixty 
cents  in  gold),  out  of  which  he  must  pay  for 
the  shelter  and  sustenance  of  himself  and  his 
mule  during  these  trips.  What  little  money 
is  made  goes  toward  paying  for  the  rent  of 
the  house,  buying  the  few  household  and 
farming  implements  and  the  cotton  and  wool 
out  of  which  the  wife  makes  their  clothes. 

79 


The  Cave  of  Montesinos 


Late  in  the  afternoon,  having  met  with  no 
one  since  leaving  Ruidera,  we  pass  through 
Osa  de  Monteil,  the  houses  half-hidden  in 
clouds  of  dust  raised  by  the  threshing  go- 
ing on  all  about.  An  hour  after,  Ezechiel, 


who  has  never  been  in  this  direction  be- 
fore, loses  his  bearings,  and  we  have  a  pain- 
ful trudge  across  the  brush  till  the  yawn- 

80 


The  Cave  of  Montesinos 


ing  chasm  of  the  valley  of  the  Guadiana  is 
again  before  us.  It  is  not  easy  to  locate  the 
object  of  our  journey,  the  famous  Cave  of 
Montesinos,  "  of  which  so  many  and  such 
wonderful  things  are  "  still  "  told  in  these 
parts,"  and  we  are  about  to  give  up  the  quest 
when  a  goatherd  comes  to  our  rescue.  It 
was  fitting  that  such  a  quaint  figure  as  that 
of  the  lonely  shepherd  we  met,  dressed  in 
the  primitive  costume  which  has  not  changed 
for  centuries,  with  the  crooked  staff  in  hand 
and  a  horn  dangling  by  his  side,  should  be 
our  guide  to  the  mysterious  place.  On  ex- 
amination it  is  evident  that  Cervantes  knew 
it,  for  his  artistic  description,  cunningly  ex- 
aggerated to  suit  the  necessities  of  the  ro- 
mance, is  true  to  nature  and  full  of  local 

81 


The  Cave  of  Montesinos 


color.  The  "  Vagabond  in  Spain  "  was  mis- 
taken in  placing  the  recess  or  chamber  of 
which  Quixote  speaks  as  on  the  left  hand  of 
the  cave  going  down.  It  is  on  the  right 
hand,  as  in  the  story.  The  fact  is  not  with- 
out value,  since  the  "  Vagabond  "  infers  from 
it  that  Cervantes  had  not  seen,  but  only  heard 
of,  the  cave.  Not  being  equipped  with  the 
needful  lights,  I  could  not  fathom  the  mys- 
terious recesses  of  the  cave,  which  did  not 
surprise  Ezechiel  or  the  shepherd,  who  were 
sure  that  no  living  man  ever  could  go  far  into 
it,  as  there  were  insurmountable  obstacles 
in  the  way — treacherous  ground,  a  fathom- 
less lake,  a  turbulent  stream,  and  Heaven 
knows  what !  "  Surely  there  are  lots  of  gold 
and  diamonds  there,"  they  said ;  and  thus 
involuntarily  testified  to  the  persistence  of 
traditions,  for  it  is  more  than  probable  that 
the  Cave  of  Montesinos  is  but  an  old  Roman 
copper-mine.  The  weirdness  of  its  surround- 
ings is  unimaginable. 

The  mixture  of  severity  and  loveliness 
makes  of  these  valleys  of  the  Upper  Guadi- 
ana  one  of  the  rarest,  most  intimate,  and 
impressive  successions  of  landscapes  I  have 
ever  seen.  In  the  early  evening,  when  the 

82 


.      TV 
'   • 


The  Cave  of  Montesinos 


tender,  delicate  blush  of  the  sky  after  sunset 
is  streaked  with  veils  of  light,  the  earth  has 
a  solidity  of  aspect  and  a  soberness  and 
strength  of  color  which  the  sunlight  takes 
away  from  it. 


IV 
Monteil 


Hermitage  of  Saelices. 


Monteil 

IT  is  dark  night  when  after  leaving  the  cave 
of  Montesinos  we  arrive  at  the  Cortijo  de 
St.  Pedro,  or  at  the  three  houses  baptized 
with  that  florid  appellation.  We  have  had 
our  supper  on  the  road  and  I  am  too  tired  to 
watch  the  new  mood  of  our  friends,  the 
Guardias,  who  be  it  said  to  their  credit  look 
somewhat  ashamed  of  themselves.  Getting 
into  the  hovel,  some  ten  by  fifteen  feet  in 
size,  which  is  to  be  my  night's  lodging-place, 
I  find  the  luxury  of  clean  sheets  over  a  straw 
mattress  on  one  of  the  two  stone  benches  on 
each  side  of  the  fire  -  place  ;  on  the  other 
bench  a  youth  stretched  at  full  length  and 
sleeping  peacefully.  The  Guardias  all 
dressed  but  for  their  boots,  which  they  take 
off,  lie  down  to  sleep  on  the  floor,  and, 
thanks  to  habit  and  the  glories  of  the  d&jeu- 
ner,  succeed.  Besides  the  entrance -door 
there  are  two  doorless  passages,  one  lead- 
ing to  the  closet  monopolized  by  the  amo 
and  his  wife,  the  other  to  the  stable.  Sleep 

87 


Monteil 


is  impossible  ;  the  very  stone  under  my  mat- 
tress teems  with  animal  activity,  but  I  prefer 
lying  awake  to  going  outside  where  the  cold 
mist  of  the  neighboring  marshes  is  saturated 
with  malaria.  Toward  one  in  the  morning 
some  muleteer  loudly  knocks  for  admittance. 
The  amo  gets  up,  lights  his  oil-lamp  (that  of 
the  Romans  of  old  and  the  Moors  of  to-day), 
and  in  scampers  a  troop  of  mules  to  the 
stable  ;  but  as  there  is  no  place  there  for  all, 
the  new-comer  stretches  on  the  floor  of  our 
room  between  two  of  his  mules,  whose  ner- 
vously tinkling  bells  tell  tales  of  martyrdom, 
as  do  also  the  plaintive  sounds,  the  groans, 
and  quick  motions  of  the  restless  sleepers. 

Oh  !  dura  tellus  Iberia  ! 

At  last,  unable  to  stand  any  more,  I  leave 
the  room  and  urge  Ezechiel  to  start  while  I 
make  an  excursion  to  the  Ermita  de  Saelices, 
the  same  Hermitage  mayhap,  quien  sabe  ? 
where  Don  Quixote,  Sancho,  and  the  stu- 
dent stopped  on  their  way  back  from  the 
Enchanted  Cave  of  Montesinos,  and  where, 
not  having -the  good  fortune  of  finding  the 
Hermit  at  home,  but  only  his  she  deputy  (a 
by  no  means  uncommon  appanage  of  her- 
mitages in  those  days),  they  were  unable  to 

88 


Monteil 


secure  what  Sancho  so  much  wanted  there — 
a  draught  of  good  wine.  ".If  it  had  been  a 
water  thirst,  there  are  wells  on  the  road 
where  I  could  have  quenched  it,"  was  the 
squire's  blunt  acknowledgment  for  the  wom- 
an's offer  of  the  tame  substitute.  At  small 
expense  the  chapel  could  be  restored  to  its 
original  condi- 
tion, so  well  built 
it  is.  But  her- 
mits are  no  more 
the  fashion  of  the 
day,  and  the  nu- 
merous army  of 
priests  and  monks 
has  been  so  re- 
duced that  all 
over  the  land, 
which  is  yearly 
growing  poorer, 
most  of  the 
churches  and 
chapels  are  fall- 
ing to  ruins. 

A  man  whom 
we   find   prowling    about   the   house    offers 
a  helping  hand  to   harness  the   mule.     As 

89 


Monteil 


we  move  away  Ezechiel  says :  "  You  saw 
that  man  ;  he  is  to  go  to  prison  soon.  He 
has  killed  his  brother,  the  poor  fellow." 
The  case  is  typical  of  the  temper  of  these 
people.  This  man  Carlos  had  a  brother  Mig- 
uel, who  one  morning  lately  amused  him- 
self by  throwing  stones  at  Carlos's  dog. 
Carlos,  hearing  his  dog  yell,  came  out,  saw 
what  Miguel  was  doing  and  told  him  to  stop. 
Miguel  refused  to  do  so,  adding  that  if  his 
brother  did  not  go  back  to  the  house  and 
stop  talking  he  would  throw  stones  at  him 
too.  Whereupon  Carlos  went  back  to  the 
house,  got  his  gun,  and  coming  back  to  the 

90 


Monteil 


door-step,  shot  his  brother  and  killed  him. 
I  asked  Ezechiel,  "  What  made  Miguel  tor- 
ment the  dog  ?  Had  he  been  bitten  by  him  ?  " 
Ezechiel  says  :  "  No  ;  I  think  not ;  but  you 
see  Miguel  had  a  large  family  of  daughters. 
You  know  the  saying :  '  Tres  hijas  y  una 
madre,  cuatro  diablos  para  un  padre.  Three 
daughters  and  a  mother,  four  devils  for  a 
father.'"  "Why  is  Carlos  free?"  I  asked. 
He  replied  :  "Well,  they'll  take  him  to  pris- 
on when  his  trial  comes  on  in  a  month  or  so." 
"  Aren't  they  afraid  he  will  run  away  in  the 
meantime  ?  "  "  No  ;  where  do  you  want  him 
to  run  to,  Sefior?  He  can't  hide  in  the 

91 


Monteil 


Sierras,  for  the  Guardias  will  find  him  easily. 
He  can't  take  a  train  and  go  anywhere,  for 
he  has  never  been  on  the  cars  in  his  life  any 
more  than  I  have,  and  he  wouldn't  know 
where  to  go." 

I  inquired  what  the  penalty  for  such  an 
offence  was  likely  to  be. 

The  old  man  replied  :  "  I  don't  know  ;  per- 
haps ten  years,  but  probably  less.  You  see 
there  was  provocation  !  " 

We  skirt  the  banks  of  the  lagoons,  and  a 
succession  of  exquisite  little  Corot  pictures 
follow  one  another  at  each  new  turn  of  the 
road.  A  gray  gauze  envelops  them,  blot- 
ting out  the  details  and  leaving  only  impres- 


'  := 


-        -- 

.,..,,. 


Monteil 


sions  of  large  masses  in  quiet  tones  under 
the  opaline  sky.  Passing  by  the  Castle  of 
Rochafrida,  its  hoary,  rambling  walls,  some 
fifteen  feet  thick,  pierced  by  a  few  small 
openings,  its  huge  crenellated  towers  crown- 
ing still  the  rocky  inlet  which  rises  soli- 
tary from  the  sea  of  reeds  in  the  centre  of  a 
lake,  look  so  terribly  solid  and  massive  as 
to  bring  forcibly  to  one's  imagination  the 
mediaeval  days.  The  site  has  a  character  of 
grandeur ;  the  hills  on  both  sides  of  the 
lake  showing  their  bare  flanks,  streaked  with 
strange  metallic  colors,  reds,  yellows,  and 
purples,  in  bands  and  in  masses,  alternating 
in  ruthless  barbaric  splendor,  emphasized  by 
the  few  gnarled,  dwarfed  trees  growing 
crookedly  in  the  crevices.  The  contrast  of 
all  that  savage  barrenness  with  the  beautiful 
lake  and  the  rows  of  centenarian  chestnuts 
on  its  shores  with  their  noble  masses  of  foli- 
age is  fine.  But  above  it  all,  how  this  cas- 
tle, "  like  roosting  falcon  musing  on  the 
chase,"  focuses  the  attention !  What  a 
strange  thing  it  is  to  nineteenth  century 
eyes,  and  how  forcibly  it  typifies  that  period 
of  the  development  of  humanity  during 
which  our  race  stumbled  along  in  the  traces 

94 


Monteil 


of  the  feudal  regime.  The  Carlovingian  le- 
gends, full  of  simple  humanity,  which  are  en- 
twined about  these  ancient  stones  come  up 
to  one's  memory  as  not  so  distant  after  all. 
And  the  damsel  Rosaflorida's  love  and 
courtship  of  brave  Montesinos  is  quite  new- 
womanlike. 

We  cross  the  marshes  at  the  end  of  the 
Rochafrida  lagoon,  climb  slowly  up  the  hill, 
and  find  ourselves  over  the  ridge  on  a  desert- 
ed plain,  broken  in  low  undulations — an  im- 
mense sea  of  reddish  clay  dotted  with  a  few 
low  junipers  and  briars.  Our  road  is  like 
those  caravan  roads  of  Africa — hundreds  of 
yards  in  width,  and  made  of  a  multitude  of 
paths  crossing  one  another,  mixing  together 
pell-mell,  among  which  the  mule  picks  the 
easiest  with  unerring  instinct.  That  road  is 
for  hours  the  solitary  evidence  of  human  pas- 
sage in  the  whole  landscape,  until  at  length, 
in  a  suddenly  abrupt  depression,  the  canon 
bed  of  a  winter  torrent,  we  spy  some  shep- 
herds with  their  flocks  of  sheep.  Going  out 
of  our  way  we  hail  them,  wanting  to  talk 
with  them.  They  nod  their  heads  and 
move  sullenly  away,  and  it  seemed  to  me  as 
if,  being  what  they  were,  that  was  the  most 

95 


Monteil 


natural  thing  for  them  to  do.  One  does 
not  spend  all  one's  life  in  such  places  with- 
out being  affected  by  their  forlornness  and 
desolation.  It  is  arid,  savage  La  Mancha 
which  makes  the  Manchegan  peasants  shy, 
taciturn,  and  sombre.  These  traits,  always 
more  or  less  prominent  in  all  Spaniards,  are 
they  not  largely  due  to  the  same  cause — the 
lonely  and  savage  character  of  the  country  ? 

Toward  ten,  at  the  end  of  a  weary,  tortu- 
ous climb,  we  come  to  some  houses  clustered 
around  a  big,  ugly  church.  If  ever  the  name 
of  a  town  has  belied  its  appearance  it  is  the 
name  of  this  sordid  village,  Villahermosa ! 
It  is  needless  to  describe  its  hovel  of  a  po- 
sada,  or  the  miserable  lunch  which  we  found 

96 


Monteil 


in  it.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  as  soon  as  our 
mule  could  be  made  ready  we  were  off  again 
for  a  reconnoissance  some  miles  south  toward 
Monteil,  in  chase  of  romantic  compensations 
for  the  trivial  hardships  of  my  Sancho  self. 

And  I  found  them  straightway  in  the 
rough  descent  to  the  valley,  where  the  mule 
stumbling,  our  cart  turned  a  somersault. 
We  had  an  amusing  time  making  repairs, 
and  were  quite  ready  to  start  again  when  a 


Monteil 


comely  young  woman  stopped  to  exchange 
views  of  the  affair  with  Ezechiel.  She  was 
mounted  on  a  donkey,  had  her  baby  and 
some  bundles  in  her  arms  and  managed 
to  hold  a  couple  of  loaded  mules,  besides 
gesticulating  freely.  After  some  good-nat- 
ured chaff  the  little  group  scampered  down 
the  steep  incline  at  a  lively  trot,  and  we 
followed  more  cautiously.  Two  leagues 
away,  across  the  plain,  were  scattered,  like 
huge  monsters  asleep,  some  queerly  shaped 
mounds,  on  the  highest  of  which  was  what 
remained  of  the  famous  Castle  of  Monteil. 
What  a  revelation  of  the  old  days  these  ruins 
were,  and  how  they  completed  the  pictures 
evoked  by  the  Castle  of  Rochafrida  !  Each 
new  impression  of  my  rambles  in  La  Mancha 
confirmed  or  helped  the  others,  giving  me 
the  opportunity  I  sought  of  placing  the  ad- 
ventures of  the  Knight  of  the  Rueful  Coun- 
tenance in  their  original  setting.  At  the 
foot  of  the  castle,  in  the  midst  of  the  great 
mountain  -  fringed  plateau,  the  eight  or  ten 
lesser  rocky  hills  lie  low  like  vassals  of  the 
forbidding  old  castle.  Such  a  sight  as  this, 
typifying  chivalry  and  the  feudal  idea,  must 
have  made  Don  Quixote  happy.  That  im- 

qS 


Monteil 


pregnable  fortress,  whose  walls  will  with- 
stand the  injuries  of  time  as  stoutly  as  the 
rock  on  which  they  are  built,  is  like  an 
eagle's  aerie,  the  home  from  which  the 
master,  with  his  tenantry  in  the  hovels  of 
the  village  at  his  feet,  dominated  the  whole 
tributary  region  around.  From  there  he 
would  start  and  prey  upon  vassals  and  neigh- 
bors. Times  have  changed  for  the  better, 
even  in  Spain. 

The  little  settlement — a  typical  mountain 
village — has  an  Alpine  look,  every  little 
stone  of  its  houses  and  pavements  sticking 
out,  bleak,  colorless,  gnawed  by  the  hard 
teeth  of  the  elements.  Its  tortuous  streets 
are  haunted  by  fine  specimens  of  picturesque 
humanity,  sane,  clear-eyed,  proud  of  bearing, 
and  dressed  like  their  ancestors  of  three  cen- 
turies ago.  At  the  door  of  the  posada  where 
we  have  a  draught  of  the  dry  heady  wine  of 
Monteil,  the  conversation  turns  naturally  on 
semi-historical,  semi-legendary  events,  which 
are  as  real  to  these  people,  nay,  more  real 
than  the  contemporary  happenings  of  Madrid 
or  Cuba,  and  I  am  urged  to  visit  the  neigh- 
boring fields  where  the  last  battle  of  the  war 
waged  between  Don  Pedro,  the  Cruel,  and 

100 


Monteil 


Henry  of  Trastamara  was  fought,  in  March, 
1369,  and  where  Henry  murdered  his  king 
and  brother,  unfairly  held  down  by  some 
French  Knights,  whose  conscience  rebelled 
at  striking  Don  Pedro  themselves,  but  per- 
mitted them  to  aid  and  abet  the  foul  deed. 
Our  audience  worked  itself  up  into  a  frenzy 
against  the  French  Knights  of  1369.  "  These 
pigs  of  foreigners,  we  would  settle  it  with 
them,  but  they  have  never  dared  come  back 
since,"  said  the  most  rabid. 

That  such  pages  of  history  should  remain 
vividly  impressed  on  the  minds  of  these  nine- 
teenth century  ignorant  folk,  and  still  be  so 


101 


Monteil. 


Monteil 


much  a  part  of  their  life,  seems  wonderful  to 
us  who,  concerned  mainly  with  the  things  of 
the  immediate  present,  cast  but  rare  glances 
into  the  past.  But  when  one  realizes  how 
familiar  these  peasants  are  with  the  old  ro- 
mances, it  seems  as  if  the  moral  of  human 
development  and  civilization  halted  in  places, 
for  these  Spaniards  of  to-day  are  very  much 
like  the  English  of  the  Elizabethan  period, 
whose  minds  were  filled  with  the  legendary 
adventures  of  the  heroes  of  precisely  the  same 
romances.  Tusserand,  in  his  "  English  Novel 
in  the  Time  of  Shakespeare,"  shows  that 
translations  and  adaptations  of  the  ancient 
Portuguese  and  Spanish  books  of  chivalry, 
of  which  the  "Amadis"  is  the  type,  were  as 
popular  in  England  as  they  had  already  be- 
come in  France  and  in  Germany.  Later, 
even,  Johnson  on  a  visit  to  Bishop  Perry 
found  "  Don  Belianis,"  and  sitting  in  the 
garden,  devoured  it  to  the  end,  and  one  of 
those  interminable  novels  of  chivalry  was  a 
great  favorite  of  Burke.  De  Foe,  in  whose 
novels  the  reaction  against  the  romantic  tra- 
dition first  asserted  itself,  was  greatly  influ- 
enced by  the  Spanish  picaresque  novels,  es- 
pecially the  "Lazarillo,"  a  great  favorite  also 

103 


Monteil 


of  Cervantes,  which  had  been  in  Spain  a  sa- 
tiric protest  against  romances  and  the  asser- 
tion of  the  common  people,  of  the  every-day 
things  of  life. 

Realism  and  Romanticism  are  no  new 
terms — certainly  not  new  things.  The  con- 
temporary battle  between  the  realistic  novels 
and  the  tales  of  adventure  was  fought  long 
ago  in  old  Spain.  But  while  in  other  west- 
ern European  countries  the  pendulum  has 
since  swung  back  and  forth,  Spain,  living 
in  the  past,  has  to-day  the  same  popular  lit- 
erature which  England  borrowed  from  her 
during  the  Elizabethan  period.  It  was 
greatly  relished  then  and  endured  long  in 


Villahermosa. 


Monteil 


the  guise  of  stories  for  children  (Steele,  in 
"The  Tattler,"  speaking  of  his  visits  to  his 
friend's  son — the  typical  boy  of  the  period, 
old  enough  to  enjoy  a  good  story — pictures 
him  as  greatly  delighted  with  these  old 
tales). 

The  coarsely  printed  little  chap  books, 
the  single  sheets  adorned  with  rough  wood- 
cuts which  pedlers  sell  or  give  as  a  pre- 
mium to  purchasers  in  the  fairs  of  La 
Mancha,  all  tell  the  same  old  adventures  of 
Christian  chevaliers,  castle  damsels  and 
Moors.  Galdos,  V  aides  have  not  made  the 
slightest  headway  in  the  popular  imagina- 
tion. They  find  their  audience  in  the  cities 
—the  country  is  still  devoted  to  the  en- 
chanted adventures  of  knights-errant  which 
Cervantes  warred  against. 

We  pass  silently  over  the  scene  of  this 
fratricidal  butchery — the  Castle  of  Monteil 
looming  up  solitary  behind,  while  before  us 
Villahermosa  stretches  a  purplish  silhouette 
of  houses,  like  a  low  battlement  dominated 
by  the  massive  tower  of  its  church — under  a 
tragic  sky  with  a  bloody  squadron  of  fantas- 
tically shaped  clouds  scurrying  along  like  an 
army  in  rout.  The  north  wind  blows  a  gale, 

106 


Monteil 


and  it  is  cold.  July  is  the  warmest  month 
of  the  year  in  these  parts,  yet  even  in  July, 
though  it  often  is  over  a  hundred  in  the  shade 
during  the  hot  hours  of  the  day,  heavy  jackets 
and  mantles  are  worn  morning  and  evening. 
At  the  miserable  posada  we  are  glad  of  a 
place  in  the  circle  of  silent  guests  squatted 
before  the  scanty  fire  of  brushwood,  while  on 
our  backs  the  wind  blows  from  the  doorless 
arched  opening  into  the  court-yard. 

Our  return   journey  to  Argamasilla  took 
some  sixteen  hours  over  a  rarely  used  trail, 


-  u 


107 


K,K'\  ,  >^ 

, 


I  »'«•— 


5 


Monteil 


cutting  straight  across  country.  The  sce- 
nery of  savagely  bare  plateaus,  tawny  and 
rocky  and  fragrant  little  wooded  valleys, 
reminded  me  of  the  Corsican  Mountains, 
probably  because  my  companion  had  cau- 
tioned me  to  keep  a  sharp  lookout  and  have 
my  gun  handy.  Ezechiel's  mongrel  cur,  he 
who  was  never  to  be  seen  and  followed  us 
in  the  shadow  of  the  cart,  must  be  added 
to  my  list  of  knowing  brutes,  for,  as  if  con- 
scious of  his  duty,  he  now  kept  patrolling 
the  ground  before  and  about  us  in  a  most 
thorough  and  business-like  manner.  There 
are  no  brigands  in  La  Mancha,  but  any 
arriero  whom  one  meets  might  feel  tempted 
to  shoot  someone,  and  run  the  risk  of  getting 
a  few  cents  or  even  nothing  for  his  trouble. 
We  stopped  to  lunch  by  the  side  of  a  well, 
a  favorite  resort  of  flocks  of  wild  pigeons  who 
kept  circling  above  our  heads  and  showing  by 
their  sudden  charges  how  they  resented  our 
intrusion.  Farther  on  the  temptation  to 
hunt  could  hardly  be  resisted — all  one  had  to 
do  to  bag  one's  supper  was  to  stroll  along  the 
edge  of  the  woods  while  the  muleteer  started 
the  rabbits  by  his  shouts.  On  approaching 
Argamasilla  we  followed  the  little  canal 

log 


Monteil 


which,  with  the  Guadiana,  makes  the  territo- 
ry about  the  pueblo  productive.  Each  little 
field  taps  the  canal  at  a  fixed  hour  and  for  a 
certain  length  of  time,  the  amount  of  water 
taken  being  carefully  measured  and  paid  for 
accordingly.  From  Ezechiel's  explanations, 
it  was  clear  that  the  management  of  this 
complicated  system  of  irrigation,  perfect  in 
spite  of  its  primitiveness,  is  even  to  its  de- 
tails that  which  I  had  seen  used  in  the  oases 
of  northern  Africa.  Here  is,  therefore, 
another  one  of  those  valuable  legacies  of  the 
Moors  against  which  one  stumbles  constantly 
in  La  Mancha. 


V 
El  Toboso 


El  Toboso 

STARTING  from  Argamasilla  before 
daylight,  our  little  mule  had  trudged 
during  eight  long  hours  the  denuded, 
inhospitable  plain  of  La  Mancha,  where  the 
unchecked  cold  blasts  from  the  Sierras  hold 
wild  riot  in  the  winter,  and  which  was  now 
lying  prostrate  under  the  furious  caresses  of 
the  sun  ;  her  parched  soil  bursting  now  and 
again  with  dull  sounds  like  the  moans  of  a 
creature  in  pain.  When  we  became  aware  of 
the  proximity  of  the  highway  we  were  look- 
ing for,  it  was  by  some  ruins,  inevitable  con- 
comitants of  this  Land  of  the  Dead.  Before 
these  silent,  melancholy  remains  and  in  the 
absence  of  the  living,  one  can  but  feel  the 
presence  of  the  dead.  'Tis  as  if  the  past  cen- 
turies were  walking  by  the  side  of  the  trav- 
eller, keeping  him  company,  and  little  imagi- 
nation is  needed  to  people  again  this  great 
artery  of  human  communications,  thrown 
across  the  undefiled  country  by  the  Romans, 
with  Iberians,  Goths,  and  Moors,  with  Span- 

113 


El  Toboso 


iards  of  the  time  when  Spain  was  the  most 
powerful  country  of  the  civilized  world,  and 
see  Isabella,  Charles  V.,  the  sombre  Philip, 
speeding  on  in  all  the  splendid  paraphernalia 
of  royalty,  and  with  their  retinue  of  haughty 
Castilians.  What  a  sense  of  the  swing  of  his- 
tory one  has  in  such  places,  and  before  the 
eternity  of  nature  how  ephemeral  and  in- 
consequential human  life  seems.  Ezechiel 
brings  back  some  echoes  of  a  past  of  which 
he  is  ignorant,  in  calling  this  road  arrecife, 
the  Arab  name  which  has  remained  in  the 
Manchegan  dialect,  one  of  the  many  patent 
souvenirs  of  five  centuries  of  Moorish  domi- 
nation. 

The  ruins  were  of  an  important  Venta, 
such  a  caravanserai  as  was  found  every  few 
leagues  when  all  travelling  and  traffic  be- 
tween Madrid  and  Seville  passed  along  this 
royal  highway.  If  the  ingenious  surmises  of 
the  learned,  who  have  industriously  erected 
their  ponderous  commentaries  all  around 
Cervantes's  romance,  are  true,  this  Venta  had 
the  rare  good  fortune  of  being  visited  by 
Don  Quixote  in  the  beginning  of  his  wan- 
derings. It  is  there,  in  the  court-yard  now 
empty  and  deserted,  that  the  Knight  of  the 

114 


I 

a 


El  Toboso 


Rueful  Countenance  kept  hi-.  nocturnal 
at-arrns  \>\< •<  ediri^  that  morning  v/hen  the 
rowdy,  canny  innkeeper  made  him  a  knight. 
To  me  let  it  be  only  what  it  surely  is,  and 
that  is  enough — one  of  the  rare  pages  of  the 
days  of  old,  the  mute  vvitnev.  of  th<-  comedies 
and  tra^edie-,  of  the  pleasures  and  troubles 
of  some  of  our  predecessors  in  the  human 
procession.  The  advent  of  great  personages, 
setting  in  a  flutter  inn-keeper  and  servants, 
and  remembered  and  retold  for  many  years  ; 
the  merry  and  the  sad  reunions,  tf>  .'<  !i  • 
picaresque  incidents,  are  blotted  out  of  our 
world.  Only  these  crumbling  walls  remain, 
pegs  On  which  the  mind  ii  /'  han^s  its 

imaginings  of  forgotten  people.  And  how 
soon  these  last  vestiges  of  the  Venta  shall  fall, 
submerged  in  the  inevitable  tide  of  oblivion  ! 
Poor  humanity,  whose  futile  scratchings  on 
the  bosom  of  Mother  Earth  are  but  the  mak- 
ing of  ii-.  tfnive. 

Hurling  the  well  empty,  we  resume  our 
journey  toward  the  road  guard-house,  two 
miles  away,  to  find  it  closed,  and  on  north- 
ward again,  over  the  white  road  ablaze  in 
the  furnace  heat.  Under  the  cart-cov(  -im?' 
the  scorching  sun-ray,  limiefv  one's  bniin  ;  the: 

i  if, 


' 


- 

.*>;•,-.'- 


.' 


-***- 


Vr 

' 


El  Toboso 


landscape  around  shimmers  under  the  same 
trembling  of  the  atmosphere  that  I  had  seen 
in  the  Sahara.  Some  olive-trees  with  their 
fantastic  trunks  and  branches  gnarled  and 
crooked  seem  the  vivid  personifications  of  the 
tortures  of  the  heat.  A  mendicant,  seated  in 
the  dust  scratching  himself,  is  the  first  man 
we  see  on  this  royal  road.  Later  two  men 
pass  us.  "  Poor  ones  also,"  says  Ezechiel. 
Queer  fashion  for  mendicants  to  carry  their 
guns  on  their  shoulders  !  But  then  it  is  a 
general  custom  in  La  Mancha.  These  two 
fellows  look  like  opera  supernumeraries,  ex- 


cept  that  their  bronzed  heads  are  finely  chis- 
elled and  full  of  character,  and  that  they  are 
ragged  beyond  any  possible  imagination. 
We  attempt  a  hasty  lunch  in  the  shadow 

118 


El  Toboso 


of  our  cart,  into  which  also  the  poor  mule, 
lying  down,  stretches  her  head  for  comfort. 
It  is  hard  work  to  eat  without  drinking,  but 
such  an  experience  has  its  value  for  the 
future  enjoyment  of  that  commonplace  of 
life — the  drinking  of  a  glass  of  water. 

Toward  four  in  the  afternoon  we  find  an- 
other guard-house  and  pure  cool  water. 
What  a  pleasure  it  is  to  see  the  dulness 
leave  the  eyes  of  our  mule  while  she  drinks 
in  long-measured  draughts,  her  legs  and  neck 
bracing  up,  her  whole  countenance  changed 
—alert  now,  ready  for  fresh  exertions.  The 
brave  brute  ! 

Across  country  again  through  a  vega,  a 
meadow  where  from  the  tall  reeds,  out  of 
which  baskets  are  made,  pop  out,  like  strange 
flowers,  the  heads  of  young  horses  and  mules 
standing  still,  in  herds,  with  their  feet  in  the 
water  of  our  friend  the  Guadiana. 

Then  the  road  leading  up  hill  after  hill,  we 
alight  and  literally  put  our  shoulders  to  the 
wheel.  The  character  of  the  country  changes. 
Climbing  the  first  spurs  of  the  mountains 
which  form  the  northern  limit  of  the  plains 
of  La  Mancha,  we  enter  one  of  the  richest 
agricultural  districts  of  Spain.  Yet  at  this 

119 


El  Toboso 


time  of  the  year  there  is  no  sign  of  vegeta- 
tion. The  bare  earth  alone  greets  the  eye  in 
desolate  hills,  all  cut  up  with  ravines  caused 
by  the  spring  floods. 

It  is  night  and  ten  o'clock,  when  we  reach 
Herencia,  having  travelled  some  fifty  miles 
during  the  day,  mostly  on  bad  roads. 

The  inn  with  its  sign,  a  wooden  cross, 
dangling  above  the  door,  was  a  grand  place 
after  the  hardships  of  the  day.  And  as  the 
Venta  de  Quesada  which  we  had  seen  in  the 
morning  loomed  up  before  Don  Quixote's 
vision  as  a  "castle  with  four  towers,  and 
spires  of  shining  silver  not  wanting,  draw- 
bridge and  moats,  and  all  the  appurtenances 
with  which  such  places  are  painted."  So  to 
my  mind  appeared  the  little  inn  and  its  pos- 
sibilities. 

But  whereas  a  drove  of  hogs  greeted  the 
chevalier,  we  found  an  interesting  band  of 
revellers.  In  honor  of  the  feast-day  upon 
which  we  had  happened  to  stumble  un- 
awares, some  thirty  men  were  assembled 
round  a  huge  table  in  the  little  courtyard, 
dimly  and  whimsically  lighted  by  the  dancing 
flames  of  some  hanging  lamps  which  though 
modern  were  roughly  made  by  hand  and  of 

120 


El  Toboso 


- 

.-•'•'.  -  •- 

"        '  •    hi  '    I 


an  ancient  model,  the  same  as  of  those  lamps 
of  Roman  decadent  style  found  in  Pom- 
peii. These  men  were  energetically  at  work 
getting  through  a  Homeric  feast,  where,  I 
learned  afterward,  some  fifty  pounds  of  beef, 
thirty  of  bread,  and  dozens  of  chickens  were 
disposed  of  in  the  good  old  fashion  and 


121 


-  FT  '  W  ftp 

•/••'      '     •     *$:'™i 
.4Li  m 

'  "fl    ' 

> 


El  Toboso 


washed  down  with  wine  ad  libitum.  The 
scene  had  an  unusual  fascination  in  that  the 
participants  were  silent  as  if  the  affair  were 
purely  a  matter  of  business.  It  proved  to 
be  the  dinner  offered  once  a  year,  in  accord- 
ance with  an  ancient  custom  transmitted  un- 
broken, by  some  rich  proprietor  to  his 
dependants  and  the  arrieros  of  his  estate. 
Ezechiel  informed  me  that  the  sturdy  fellows 
had  prepared  themselves  for  the  event  by 
an  unusually  scant  diet,  as  was  evident  by 
their  going  through  their  work  like  well 
oiled  machines. 

We  fared  finely  ourselves  over  that  penin- 
sular dish — the  rabbit — the  animal  found  on 
the  ancient  coins  of  the  country  and  testify- 
ing to  the  culinary  gratitude  of  people  not 
too  spoiled  in  these  matters.  After  our  din- 
ner I  would  have  done  the  rabbit  a  like 
honor  had  I  had  the  choosing  of  coin  de- 
signs. 

There  was  a  dance  afterward — very  digni- 
fied— a  mixed  affair — local,  with  a  dash  of 
civilized  notions  thrown  in,  a  delightfully 
clumsy  mixture  of  the  provincial  and  the 
civilized  dance. 

It  was  as  if  while  attempting  to  disport 
123 


El  Toboso 


himself  after  our  own  fashion,  a  half  peasant, 
half  Moor,  had  been  unable  to  divest  himself 
of  the  ways  that  had  become  the  most  rigid 
parts  of  his  nature.  In  such  way  the  polka 
was  half  a  cachucha,  half  a  bolero,  and  the 
waltz  smacked  of  the  zapatera  with  its  queer 
contortions  of  the  torso,  and  the  rhythmic 
beat  of  heels  and  toes. 

But  alas,  Herencia  was  the  most  important 
place  I  had  as  yet  come  across  in  my  Man- 
chegan  rambles,  and  the  most  disagreeable 
sign  of  its  thrift  and  prosperity — the  men 
dressed  in  the  universal  civilized  garb  that 
I  met  with  on  all  sides  while  following  the 
stream  of  people  toward  the  sanctuary,  where 

124 


El  Toboso 


was  being  celebrated  the  feast  of  Sant'  lago, 
the  patron  saint  of  Spain,  "  Don  Saint  James, 
the  Moorslayer,  one  of  the  most  valiant 
Saints  and  Knights  of  the  squadrons  of 
Christ — that  ever  the  world  had  and  Heaven 
has  now"  (Don  Quixote,  Part  II.,  Chapter 
LVIII.).  Near  the  entrance  of  the  church, 
on  a  little  table  covered  with  a  napkin,  was  a 
large  platter  full  of  coins.  Its  keeper,  an  old 


125 


El  Toboso 


^e5=5*^;5r-.Vr.: 

'        .  S^^J&S* 


lady,  the  traditional  duenna,  sunk  in  a  low 
chair,  and  lost  in  the  folds  of  her  mantilla, 
kept  fluttering  her  fan  vigorously  and  at  in- 
tervals, interrupting  her  constant  mumbling 
of  prayers,  she  turned  to  the  next  person  to 
say,  " Jesus,  it's  hot!"  My  little  contribu- 
tion is  gracefully  acknowledged  in  that  way. 
From  the  church  door  a  company  of  sol- 
diers lined  the  way  to  the  altar,  resplendent 
with  its  hundreds  of  lighted  candles  shining 
on  pictures  and  marble  columns,  and  cande- 

126 


El  Toboso 


labra  and  the  profusion  of  gaudy  paper  flow- 
ers set  in  huge  vases. 

The  low  murmur  of  prayers  grows  louder 
and  quieter  with  the  faint  suggestion  of  a 
rhythm,  that  of  a  national  tune. 

In  a  side  chapel,  before  an  old  painting 
black  with  age  and  bright  with  real  jewels, 
some  silver  ornaments,  a  gold  diadem  and 
bracelets  glued  on  the  canvas,  a  crowd  of 
women  on  their  knees  form  a  picture  a  la 
Ribera,  with  beautiful  oppositions  of  intense 
light  and  black  shadows.  While  all  heads 
are  devoutly  bowed,  a  single  profile,  straight 
and  hard,  remains  erect — that  of  a  young  girl 
of  the  pure  Arab  type,  with  the  large  black 
eyes  full  of  flame  and  shadows,  with  full  lips 
firmly  and  finely  drawn  and  sunk  in  the 
corners.  A  strangely  sensuous  face  which, 
in  a  haughty  way,  in  the  consciousness,  per- 
haps, of  superb  animality,  seemed  to  wonder 
what  the  scene  before  it  might  have  to  do 
with  real  life.  Why  should  that  single  fig- 
ure, seemingly  out  of  keeping  with  its  en- 
vironment, appear  to  me  the  most  typical 
one  ?  Perhaps  because  of  the  idiosyncrasies 
of  my  Don  Quixote  self  and,  I  think,  per- 
haps also  because  it  was  the  one  sincere,  in- 

127 


El  Toboso 


voluntary  expression  there  of  these  Southern 
natures,  which,  having  no  deeply  religious 
feelings,  take  life  after  a  manner  eminently 
practical.  She  cast  cold,  disrespectful  glances 
toward  the  devout  paraphernalia  on  the  chapel 
walls,  bringing  to  mind  the  levity  with  which 
in  the  age  of  the  Inquisition  Cervantes  spoke 
of  such  things  :  "  These  tombs  in  which  the 
bodies  are  of  these  great  lords,  have  they  sil- 
ver lamps  in  front  of  them,  or  are  the  walls 
of  their  chapels  adorned  with  crutches,  grave 
clothes,  periwigs,  legs  and  eyes  of  wax, 
.  .  .  ? "  says  Sancho  in  Don  Quixote, 
Part  II.,  Chapter  VIII.  It  is  a  far  cry  from 
the  peasant's  disregard  to  the  liberal  indiffer- 
ence of  a  great  Churchman.  Yet  under  his 
hood  the  intellectual  face  of  Cervantes's  pow- 
erful friend,  Archbishop  Sandoval,  Inquisitor- 
General,  must  have  worn  a  quizzical  smile  at 
the  audacity  of  that  book  and  author  he  so 
authoritatively  protected — otherwise  the  one 
might  have  ended  in  an  auto  da  fe,  and  the 
other  in  a  dungeon. 

The  sky  is  studded  with  an  infinitude  of 
stars.  The  streets  are  dark  but  for  the  few 
lights  of  some  stands  where  fruit,  bread, 
pastry,  and  the  omnipresent  garbanzos  (chick 

129 


El  Toboso 


peas)  are  sold. 
The  people  are  or- 
derly, moving  so 
quietly  that  one 
misses  the  exu- 
berance of  feel- 
ing, the  bursts  of 
merriment  of  the  Italians  on  such  occasions. 
No  motions  are  made  which  would  disturb 
the  dignified  folds  of  their  capes  and  mantil- 
las. Few  words  are  exchanged,  yet  one 
catches  snatches  of  those  sententious  Castilian 
proverbs,  full  of  sap  and  sense,  which  are  too 
near  the  seriousness  of  life  to  bring  a  laugh. 
130 


In  the  City  Hall  Tower,  Alcazar  de  San  Juan. 


El  Toboso 


Two  young  men  strolling  about  the  groups 
pause ;  at  a  few  twangs  of  their  guitar  the 
silent  crowd  presses  around  them.  The  two 
players  face  one  another.  One  plays  the 
accompaniment,  the  other,  with  that  astonish- 
ing natural  virtuosity  which  mimics  real  talent 
so  well  that  one  must  know  much  to  detect 
the  difference,  plays  the  air.  Their  poses  are 
characteristic — the  virtuoso  standing  straight, 
his  head  thrown  back,  the  accompanist  with 
bent  body  resting  on  one  foot  and  his  eyes 
riveted  on  his  partner's  guitar.  When  the 
song  is  finished  a  few  low  claps  of  apprecia- 
tion are  heard  while  the  crowds  noiselessly 
disperse. 

But  in  the  distance  a  louder,  sensuous  voice 
sings  a  Malaguena,  which  the  wild  expressive 
twangs  of  the  guitar  punctuate.  There  is 
fury  in  the  accompaniment,  passion  in  the 
voice,  and  this  reveals  another  side  of  these 
people's  natures — the  smouldering  fire  under 
the  ashes. 

As  we  come  out  of  the  pueblo  in  the 
early  morning  a  street  merchant  is  already 
at  work  near  the  market-place,  offering  his 
stock  of  goods  at  auction  to  the  country 
folks,  the  pilgrims,  who  are  getting  ready 
133 


El  Toboso 


to  return  home.  It  is  the  one  occasion  for 
most  of  those  who  come  to  town  but  once 
a  twelvemonth,  on  such  a  feast  day,  to 
make  their  necessary  purchases  for  the 
whole  year.  And  this  peculiar  demand  has 
brought  out  a  class  of  "  drummers,"  whose 
life  is  spent  in  moving  over  the  country,  from 
fiesta  to  fiesta. 

Reaching  the  highway  outside  the  town, 
there  goes  before  us  a  troop  of  chattering 
pilgrims,  solid  little  women  bedizened  with 
bright  kerchiefs  on  heads  and  shoulders, 
mounted  a-top  of  the  loads  on  their  little 
donkeys.  The  dust  clouds,  glorified  by  the 
rising  sun,  make  a  halo  about  the  gay  picture 
full  of  movement. 

We  pass  them,  look  back,  and  lo !  the 
charm  has  vanished.  The  cavalcade  is  as 
commonplace  as  possible.  It  was  the  sun 
alone  which  made  the  pretty  picture. 

As  we  now  turn  to  look  at  the  receding 
town,  its  silhouette  clear  on  the  tawny  cur- 
tain of  the  Sierras  behind,  it  takes  the  be- 
witching appearance  of  a  fresh  and  dainty 
vision  in  white  garb,  softened  and  beautified 
by  the  tender  light  of  the  morning.  In  re- 
gard to  beauty,  Spain  is  the  democratic  land 

134 


One  of  the  Ancient  Mills  at  Crijitano. 


Near  Crijitano. 


El  Toboso 


par  excellence.  Decrepit  buildings,  half- 
ruined  villages,  ragged  mendicants,  have 
their  daily  hour  of  unrivalled  splendor.  Di- 
lapidated objects  and  commonplace  scenes 
touched  by  the  sun  of  the  south  are  turned 
by  this  incomparable  magician  into  visions 
of  loveliness.  In  the  course  of  the  day  the 
glorious  light  dwells  on  each  detail  of  the 
landscape,  in  turn  giving  it  inexpressible 
charm  and  beauty,  and  leaving  it  a  dull 
corpse  whose  life  has  departed. 

And  as  we  go  on  our  journey  this  calm 
morning,  there  goes  also  with  us  in  the 
gutters  on  each  side  of  the  well-kept  road  a 


stream  of  fireworks — tiny  blue  flowers,  which 
against  the  neutral  background  of   parched 


137 


El  Toboso 


grass  and  pierced  by  the  slanting  rays  of  the 
sun,  are  transfigured  into  radiant  jewels. 

All  too  soon  do  we  come  to  Alcazar  de 
San  Juan,  a  town  of  some  commercial  im- 
portance since  the  railroad  branch  to  Valen- 
cia joins  here  the  main  road  from  Madrid 
to  Seville.  Alcazar  naturally  boasts  of  its 
station  with  its  "buffet"  But  far  from  me 
is  the  desire  to  eat  from  a  table  covered  with 
a  table-cloth  bearing  the  evidences  of  much 
service,  Spanish  imitations  of  English  steaks, 
or  to  drink  so-called  Bordeaux  wine  from  a 
glass,  instead  of  black,  rough  Val  de  Penas 
from  a  skin  or  earthenware  bottle — and  listen 
to  the  impossible  Hispano-Franco-English 
talk  of  the  waiter.  There  is  enough  local 
color  left  all  around  this  buffet,  symbol  of 
nineteenth-century  civilization,  which,  like  a 
fungus  amidst  the  grass  and  little  plants  of 
a  prairie,  is  here  stranded  in  provincial  and 
old-time  surroundings.  We  take  a  look  at 
the  adjacent  country  from  the  tower  of  the 
Town  Hall,  and  have  a  hasty  breakfast  and 
rest  at  the  fine  fonda,  whose  monumental 
fagade  stands  on  a  large  plaza,  the  market- 
place, where  an  amusing  spectacle  is  going 
on  under  the  watchful  eye  of  a  municipal 

138 


In  Crijitano. 


El  Toboso 


employee  armed  with  a  short  broom.  In  the 
brief  intervals  between  his  exchange  of  civil- 
ities and  gossip  with  passers-by,  he  plays  at 
sweeping  the  pavement  with  such  lordly 
poses  and  measured  movements  as  would  be- 
fit a  grandee,  if  such  an  one,  which  Heaven 
forbid,  were  sunk  to  so  lowly  a  pastime. 
Market  hour  is  over,  but  a  few  peasants  still 
linger  in  the  hope  of  disposing  of  their  stock 
in  trade  that  they  have  spread  out  in  the  dust 
on  the  pavements.  They  shout  and  sing  the 
virtues  of  each  particular  fruit  and  vegetable, 
paying  extravagant  compliments  to  every 
housekeeper  who  comes  on  the  scene  or  pok- 
ing fun  at  one  another,  grumbling  at  Provi- 
dence and  bad  luck,  all  in  a  jolly  spirit,  and 
with  rough,  strong  voices  and  ripples  of 
laughter.  There  are  some  women  among 
them,  handsome,  in  multi-colored  dresses, 
and  it  is  of  one  of  them  that  we  buy  our  pro- 
vision of  fruit.  "  Vaya  usted  con  Dios" 
11  God  be  with  you,"  she  says  as  I  leave. 
Then  calling  me  back,  "  Caballero,  when 
you  go  home  tell  your  girl  that  they  are 
pretty  fine  women,  the  women  of  Alcazar. 
Good  in  business,  and  good  in  love,  and 
mind  you,  Senor,  they  love  but  once  !  " 

140 


El  Toboso 


Sitting  on  a  bench  under  the  entrance- 
way  of  the  inn — the  largest  we  have  as  yet 
seen — I  get  an  idea  of  what  such  a  place  as 
the  Venta  de  Cardenas,  or  that  of  Quesada, 
may  have  been  in  the  old  days.  In  spite  of 
the  inevitable  dirt  and  slovenliness,  the  place 
has  an  unmistakable  cachet  of  prosperity, 


and  the  cheery  innkeeper  and  her  helpers 
move  about  busily.  In  front  of  us  some 
female  servants  are  sewing,  repairing  sheets, 

141 


El  Toboso 


fashioning  garments  for  the  master's  help. 
A  buffoon's  sole  occupation  is  to  sweep  the 
floor,  while  a  colleague  goes  after  him 
sprinkling  it  the  whole  day  long.  The  big, 
fat  ama,  with  a  face  like  a  Roman  senator, 
strides  all  over  the  place,  keeping  a  watchful 
eye  on  details,  and  giving  imperative  orders 
in  a  voice  which  sounds  like  a  clarion  blast. 
The  amo,  with  bunch  of  keys  dangling  from 
his  belt,  sees  to  the  filling  of  wine-bottles,  to 
the  killing  of  poultry,  to  the  cutting  of  meat. 
The  cooks — at  work  under  our  eyes — are  two 

142 


El  Toboso 


old  witches,  who  alternately  disappear  and 
reappear  in  the  smoke  of  the  wood  fire. 
The  ama,  who,  in  spite  of  her  bulk,  is  here, 
there,  everywhere  at  once,  comes  up  behind 
them,  often  unexpectedly  snatching  stew- 
pans,  tasting  the  food,  adding  ingredients, 
and  upbraiding  the  witches  in  the  grandest 
style,  with  that  magnificent  organ  aforemen- 
tioned. However,  the  real  ruler  of  this  fon- 
da  appears  to  be  a  spoiled  little  boy,  hardly 
three  years  old,  precocious  and  saucy — the 
Benjamin  of  the  large  family.  He  keeps 


El  Toboso 


his  special  criada  busy — a  handsome  young 
woman,  in  orange  skirt,  red  stockings,  and 
black  shoes  (oh,  luxury !),  who  looks  the 
picture  of  helplessness,  when,  blushing  pret- 
tily, she  casts  frightened  glances  toward  the 
ama  at  every  fresh  evidence  of  the  little 
rogue's  mischievous  spirit. 

Alcazar  de  San  Juan  and  its  fonda  hav- 
ing passed  out  of  sight  were  nothing  more 
to  me  than  one  of  the  souvenirs  of  my  jour- 
ney added  to  the  others — a  sharp  negative, 
indelibly  preserved  in  the  camera  of  my 
brain — when  we  caught  sight  of  the  wind- 
mills of  the  Campo  de  Crijitano,  one  of 
which,  it  is  said,  our  knight  met  with  in  his 
celebrated  adventure.  Poor  Quixote  does 
not  seem  so  mad  after  all  when  one  first  sees 
this  row  of  mills  set  irregularly  on  the  crest 
of  a  hill  and  looking  like  nothing  one  has 
ever  seen,  more  like  a  collection  of  queer, 
primitive  toys  stuck  there  by  the  weird  ca- 
price of  a  lunatic.  As  one  approaches  and 
views  them  one  by  one,  these  clumsy-looking 
affairs,  propped  up  like  very  aged  persons, 
are  thoroughly  fantastic.  No  wonder  the 
worthy  knight  mistook  them  for  giants  !  On 
his  native  soil  Cervantes's  book  takes  an 

145 


El  Toboso 


^^-r**^?^ 


added  pungency.  How  much  it  is  of  the 
country,  how  true  to  life  are  the  characters, 
descriptions  and  language,  one  needs  to  live 
here  among  the  people  to  know.  There  is  a 
great  charm  in  stumbling  at  all  instants  on 
things  it  has  made  familiar  to  us.  For  ex- 
ample, not  only  do  the  inhabitants  of  certain 
villages  of  La  Mancha  dress  to-day  like 
Sancho  Panza,  but  all  Manchegans  are  mines 
of  those  old  sayings  in  which  the  wisdom 
of  generations  is  crystallized  into  proverbs 
which,  like  him,  they  constantly  use  to  sum 
up  tersely  a  situation. 

Near  these  mills  we  stop  to  inquire  of  a 
water-cart  driver  our  shortest  way  to  the 
pueblo.  Ezechiel  got  the  desired  informa- 

146 


El  Toboso 


tion,  and  then  "  Brother,"  he  said,  "it  is  wa- 
ter you  are  carrying  ?  " 

"Fine  drinking-water,  yea.  Don't  you 
want  some  ?  " 

"  Thanks,  no  ;  our  bottle  is  half  full,  still." 

"  Cascara  !  It  must  be  hot,  have  some  of 
mine,"  answered  the  man. 

Our  bottle  is  filled  with  sweet  fresh  water, 
and  Ezechiel  calls  the  man,  who  is  going 
back  to  his  cart : 

"  Here,  here's  a  pataquilla"  (a  cent),  "  and 
we  are  obliged  to  you." 


lil 


SP 


"  No,  brother,  I  don't  want  any  money,  I 
am  glad  to  give  you  good  water,  that's  all." 
"  But  we  all  have  to  live  by  our  labor,  and 

147 


El  Toboso 


you  have  to    drive  many  miles  to  get  that 
water." 

"  Biieno,  but  it's  better  to  make  a  friend 
than  to  make  ten  dollars,"  then,  catching  a 
glimpse  of  me  :  "  All  right,  brother,"  he  says 
to  Ezechiel,  "  I  see  the  caballero  can  better 
afford  to  give  this  money  than  I  to  be  with- 
out it,  and  so  I'll  take  the  money." 

I  buttered  the  pataquilla  with  a  cigarette, 
and  added  the  valued  courtesy  of  offering  him 
light  from  my  cigar.  He  stood  caressing 
our  mule  while  giving  us  again  instructions 
as  to  our  road.  Under  the  scant  protection 
of  a  handkerchief,  wound  turban-like  around 
his  head,  his  fine  brown  face  was  aglow  in 
the  sunlight,  and  the  blood  gave  a  flamboy- 
ant hue  to  his  firm  cheeks  like  the  rich  color 
of  a  hard  red  apple.  His  black  eyes  flashed 
and  the  veins  of  his  neck  and  forehead 
bulged  out ;  he  was  the  picture  of  a  superbly 
healthy,  careless,  happy  creature. 

After  he  had  gone  Ezechiel  said,  senten- 
tiously  :  "That  pataquilla  won't  do  him  any 
good,  sefior,  for  para  dar  y  tener,  seso  es 
menester"  To  give  or  to  keep  hath  need 
of  brains.  "  He'll  drink  or  smoke  it  as  soon 
as  he  reaches  the  village." 

148 


El  Toboso 


Campo  de  Crijitano,  named  for  the  pro- 
ductive land,  the  rich  fields  around  it 
(campo-field),  is  one  of  the  three  or  four 
rare  specimens  of  the  best  Manchegan  pue- 
blos. In  spite  of  its  well-to-do  air,  of  its  big 
houses,  some  of  which  have  glass  windows, 
stone  carvings  and  ornaments  of  wrought 
iron,  it  preserves  as  strong  a  local  flavor  as 
its  humbler  sisters.  Being  fortunately  re- 
moved from  the  railroad,  it  remains,  in  spite 
of  its  prosperity,  an  old-time  community. 
Having  variety  in  its  picturesqueness  and 
dignity  in  many  of  its  buildings,  it  is  good 
to  find  it  Manchegan  to  the  core,  in  nowise 
different  from  the  poorest  villages  of  this 
land  of  enchantment  where  the  old  costumes, 
habits  and  old  houses  have  remained  un- 
changed for  ages,  for  centuries. 

The  Campo  is  dozing  when  at  high  noon 
we  meander  through  its  precipitous  street 
toward  the  posada.  Quevedo  alone,  the 
master  par  excellence  of  picaresque  descrip- 
tions, could  have  done  justice  to  the  types 
we  find  there.  The  fellow  who  stood  at  the 
door  with  a  bandage  around  his  head  which 
he  sprinkles  with  some  old  woman's  ointment 
kept  in  a  greasy  pig-skin  vessel,  the  infirm 

149 


In   Toboso. 


El  Toboso 


amo  and  ama,  each  greater,  surely,  in  breadth 
than  in  height  ;  the  collection  of  half-naked 
hangers  on  escaped  from  nowhere  but  the 
pages  of  "  Pablo  de  Segovia,  The  Great  Ruf- 
fian." The  dingy  interior — parlor,  dining, 
sleeping-room.  What  was  it  ?  or,  rather, 


"V 


what  was  it  not  ?  with  its  indescribable  dingi- 
ness,  filth,  and  flies,  is  a  place  not  to  be  de- 

151 


A   Glimpse  of  the  Big  Church,  Toboso. 


El  Toboso 


scribed.  But  there  we  had  to  rest  under  the 
slanting,  low  roof  with  its  roughly  hewed 
beams,  cobwebbed  all  over.  In  choosing  our 
place  we  pass  by  or  walk  over  muleteers, 
pedlers,  swine-herds,  stretched  on  the  bare 
Moor.  On  the  walls  harnesses  and  sombreros 
are  hanging  on  nails,  in  the  corners  are  sacks 
of  grain,  packages,  wine-skins  belonging  to 
the  sleepers,  and  guarded  by  little  curs  that 
snarl  silently  when  one  gets  too  near,  and 
would  bark  and  bite  at  the  slightest  attempt 
to  touch  their  masters'  property. 

In  the  weird  light — a  half-light — what  a 
fine  picture  this  interior  makes !  Two  stables 
are  near  us  —  one  for  the  mules,  the  other 
for  the  pigs.  These  last  are  grunting,  the 
mules  kick,  and  lean  cats,  prowling  about  in 
their  search  for  food,  mew.  A  mule  chased 
from  the  stable  picks  her  way  quickly  among 
the  snoring  sleepers,  not  one  of  whom  moves, 
while  her  master,  trudging  behind  with  the 
harness,  urges  her  on  with  a  peculiar  noisy 
shout  ending  in  a  hiss.  No  interruptions 
wake  these  sleepers  whose  slumbers  are  deep 
when  chance  favors  them  in  the  twenty-four 
hours — four-fifths  of  which  are  spent  in  labor. 
Resting  until  the  last  minute,  they  are  up  and 
153 


El  Toboso 


at  work  in  an  instant.  There  is  no  stretching 
of  the  limbs,  no  washing  to  be  gone  through, 
no  clothes  to  put  on.  A  drink  of  water  and 
they  are  behind  their  mules  under  the  broil- 
ing sun,  the  crooked  stick  in  their  hands, 
wide  awake  and  singing. 

We  start  at  three  in  the  afternoon,  har- 
nessing the  mule  in  the  midst  of  a  drove  of 
pigs — a  hundred  or  more — the  village  pigs, 
which  are  being  gathered  together  to  go  to 
the  fields  under  the  guardianship  of  boys. 
After  following  a  beautiful  road  for  a  league 
or  more  and  passing  the  sanctuary  on  the 
hill  where  reposes  the  miraculous  image  of 
the  patron  saint  of  the  Campo,  "  Our  Lady 
of  Crijitano,"  we  strike  across  wheat-fields 
and  in  a  couple  of  hours  reach  the  barren 
country,  sparsely  dotted  with  clusters  of  trees, 
where  Don  Quixote  met  with  one  of  his 
most  pitiful  adventures,  the  first  sight  of  his 
lady  Dulcinea  changed  by  malefic  enchant- 
ment into  a  coarse  peasant  wench. 

Quite  melancholy  are  the  approaches  of 
Toboso,  whose  few  houses,  built  largely  of 
sculptured  fragments  of  ancient  important 
structures,  plainly  tell  the  decadence  of  the 
renowned  and  prosperous  city  which  accord- 

154 


Guardias  Civiles  Making  an  Investigation  at  Toboso. 


El  Toboso 


ing  to  an  official  report  had  nine  hundred 
houses  in  the  reign  of  Philip  II.  There  is 
nevertheless  a  winning  charm,  a  sort  of  dig- 
nity to  the  place  like  that  of  a  deserving  un- 
fortunate who  preserves  some  gentlemanly 
demeanor. 

Its  dilapidated  houses,  strewn  around  two 
stern,  forbidding-looking  churches,  appeared, 
in  spite  of  their  scars,  clean  and  well  kept. 
Its  ravine-like  lanes  were  free  from  the  nox- 
ious sights  which  had  grown  so  familiar  to 
me  as  inseparable  adjuncts  of  Manchegan 
streets.  In  Toboso  I  also  found  that  exotic 
wonder  an  exquisitely  clean  posada.  It 
was  late  when  we  saw  it,  and  I  hardly  dared 
trust  my  first  impression,  but  it  stood  the 
test  of  a  detailed  survey  in  the  full  light  of 
the  next  day.  Imagine  Dutch  cleanliness 
in  La  Mancha  ;  floors  of  court-yards  and 
rooms  shining,  barren  of  dust,  curtains  at 
the  little  windows,  mats  at  the  doors,  and 
in  appropriate  places  on  the  white  walls 
pathetic  attempts  at  decoration  in  the  shape 
of  religious  prints  set  in  colored  paper 
frames ! 

Pieces  of  furniture,  chairs,  chests,  and 
tables,  curiously  carved,  and  the  array  of  brass 

156 


El  Toboso 


bowls,  spoons,  and  ladles  of  quaint  and  rough 
design  in  the  kitchen  were  beautifully  pol- 
ished. But  there  were  no  servants  in  this 
poor  inn.  The  family — father,  mother,  and 
two  daughters — kept  the  place  in  order. 
The  women  were  dignified  and  kindly,  and 
as  they  went  about  their  work  in  the  house 
an  atmosphere  of  gentility  hovered  around 

157 


El  Toboso 


them.  Their  simple  manners,  devoid  neither 
of  repose  nor  of  grace,  were  pleasant  to 
watch.  And  then  looking  clean  and  neat 
they  made  me  feel  less  far  from  home. 

The  father,  a  six-foot  man  of  about  fifty, 
with  huge  frame,  big  shoulders,  clean  face, 
and  a  peculiarly  low  forehead,  spent  his 
time  alternately  in  giving  orders  and  praying. 
On  our  arrival  we  found  the  family  finishing 
supper,  and  before  our  inquiries  were  an- 
swered the  four  creatures  stood  with  heads 
bowed  low  down  on  the  table,  chanting  an 
interminable  litany,  and  kept  us  waiting  un- 
til the  long  ordeal  was  at  an  end.  As  soon 
as  we  could  make  our  wishes  known  the 
women,  excited  and  fluttered  at  the  advent 
of  guests,  disappeared  to  go  and  prepare  our 
supper,  when  the  father  straightway  started 
on  his  hobby — religion.  He  was  a  fanatic, 
with  the  fierce  intolerance  which  is  usually 
considered  by  foreigners  one  of  the  strong 
traits  of  the  Spaniards.  I  must  say  that,  un- 
til now,  I  had  seen  nothing  of  intolerance 
among  the  Manchegans  ;  but  this  man  more 
than  made  up  for  it.  Don  Quixote  discus- 
sing chivalry  was  no  more  enthusiastic,  not 
a  whit  less  hare-brained  than  this  giant  inn- 

158 


El  Toboso 


keeper  when  inveighing  against  the  bad  ways 
of  the  present  generation,  against  its  indif- 
ference to  church  attendance,  its  non-observ- 
ance of  religious  practices — in  short,  its  lack 
of  what  was  formerly  termed  the  religious 
spirit  in  Spain.  He  would  illustrate  his 
ideas  by  quotations  from  theological  books, 
cross  himself  when  pronouncing  the  name  of 
God  or  the  saints,  and  he  would  occasional- 
ly break  in  upon  his  reasonings  to  ask  us  our 


opinions  of  some  prayers  to  be  used  on 
special  occasions  of  temptation  and  illness 
which  he  had  selected  from  the  old  manuals 


159 


the  Posada's  Courtyard,  Toboso. 


El  Toboso 


of  piety.  This  world  was  going  the  way  of 
the  tempter,  was  the  burden  of  his  song, 
and  he  pointed  to  the  fact  that  in  the  last 
century  every  other  house  in  Toboso  was 
a  church,  a  private  chapel,  or  a  convent, 
while  the  Government  having  taken  away 
lands  and  fields  and  convents  from  monks 
and  sisters,  there  were  hardly  any  monks  or 
sisters  left,  and  only  two  churches.  He 
remembered  how  beautiful  were  the  holy 
services  he  used  to  attend  in  his  youth,  with 
the  magnificent  tapestries,  gold  and  silver 
vases,  and  rich  ornaments  which  made  the 
altars  like  visions  of  paradise.  "  All  these 
riches  had  to  be  sold,  little  by  little,  and  thus 
the  church  was  now  bereft  of  her  power  for 
good." 

Ezechiel's  opinion  of  our  host  was  ex- 
pressed figuratively  in  a  Sancho-like  fashion, 
made  more  contemptuous  by  a  shrug  of  the 
shoulders  :  "  Well,  senor,  he  talks,  like  a 
linnet,  out  of  a  mighty  small  head." 

A  sad  lot  was  that  of  the  women  of  the 
house  with  such  a  master.  He  meant  well, 
of  course,  but  his  was  an  iron  will,  and  every- 
one must  agree  with  the  spirit  of  his  doctrine 
as  well  as  with  his  minute  observances.  Thus 

161 


El  Toboso 


Maria  and  Juana,  the  daughters,  in  passing 
before  each  saintly  image — each  prayer  cut 
from  the  pages  of  ancient  missals,  adorning 
the  walls  all  over  the  house,  in  their  little 
frames  ingeniously  fashioned  of  straw  and 
gilt  paper — had  to  bow  and  stop,  audibly  re- 
citing a  pious  ejaculation.  While  in  the 
midst  of  their  work,  the  hands  of  the  giant 
would  beckon,  and  business  had  to  be  in- 
stantly abandoned  for  the  recitation  of  some 
special  prayer  for  the  deliverance  of  slaves  or 
the  conversion  of  the  faithless.  Guests  were 
less  fortunate  than  the  cat  and  dog,  the  only 
inmates  enjoying  full  liberty  in  the  house. 
There  was  no  escape  possible  from  the  tyran- 
nical ways  of  this  singular  amo,  who,  caring 
little  about  the  things  of  this  world,  would 
let  his  guests  starve  or  go  away  without 
paying  if  only  he  could  improve  the  oppor- 
tunity to  make  them  religious  after  his  own 
heart. 

That  was  the  reason  for  the  lack  of  patron- 
age of  this  otherwise  admirable  place.  When 
in  the  evening,  seated  outdoors  and  hearing 
songs  of  merriment  in  the  neighborhood,  we 
wondered  what  was  going  on,  "  It  is  from 
the  other  posada,"  said  the  amo.  "  May 

162 


Maria. 


El  Toboso 


God  burn  it  to  the  ground,  for  devil-pos- 
sessed people  run  it  and  idolaters  alone  fre- 
quent it." 

Of  the  rough  and  brutal  character,  pro- 
verbial in  Cervantes's  time,  of  the  inhabitants 
of  Toboso,  Morisco  refugees  from  Granada, 
who  had  not  had  time  to  outlive  the  rude, 
fierce  traits  of  their  Arab  ancestors,  I  saw  no 
trace.  But  the  sole  industry  of  the  town  now 
as  then  is  the  manufacture  of  large  jars, 
tinajas,  made  of  the  tufous  earth  which 
abounds  in  the  locality  and  the  Tobosan  tina- 
jas with  their  graceful  swelling  lines  and 
curves  are  still  renowned  in  the  Castiles. 
The  principal  church  is  the  same  one  Cervan- 
tes described,  and  the  blind  alley  where  the 
roguish  squire  insisted  that  the  princely  castle 
of  the  fair  damsel  was,  still  exists.  I  could 
not  miss  the  opportunity  of  walking  wide 
awake  into  the  romancer's  dream,  "while the 
village  was  wrapt  in  silence,  for  all  the  inhab- 
itants were  asleep — reposing  at  full  stretch- 
as  they  say,"  and  with  Don  Quixote  and 
Sancho  pass  in  the  shadow  cast  by  the  "  great 
pile"  and,  looking  at  the  belfry  tower,  re- 
mark with  Sancho  that  the  pile  was  a  church 
and  not  a  palace.  The  scene  was  just  like 

164 


El  Toboso 


that  of  the  book.  "  No  sound  was  heard 
but  the  barking  of  dogs  which  stunned  Don 
Quixote's  ears  and  troubled  Sancho's  heart. 
Now  and  then  a  jackass  brayed,  pigs  grunt- 
ed, and  cats  mewed,  whose  voices  of  various 
sound  were  heightened  in  the  silence  of  the 
night." 

165 


El  Toboso 


We  start  at  midnight  on  our  return  jour- 
ney to  Argamasilla,  passing  the  Campo  de 


Crijitano  before  daybreak  and  going  down 
the  slopes  to  the  meadows  of  the  Guadi- 
ana,  and  cross  the  river  on  a  bridge  whose 
length  shows  what  mighty  proportions  this 
puny  stream  is  wont  to  assume  during  the 
rainy  season.  Toward  noon  we  come  to  a 
quinteria  (large  farm)  and  Ezechiel  goes 

1 66 


Juatta. 


El  Toboso 


in  to  ask  permission  to  enter,  a  privilege 
never  refused  but  which  must  be  asked  for 
and  granted,  like  everything  else  in  this 
country,  with  the  elaborately  polite  formulas 
sanctioned  by  custom.  Our  cart  enters  the 
square  spacious  courtyard,  with  low  build- 
ings on  two  sides  and  walls  on  the  others. 
We  find  a  hearty  welcome  in  the  kitchen, 
where  eight  field-laborers,  with  the  inevitable 
long  blades  in  their  hands,  are  sitting  on  low 
stools  energetically  discussing  the  contents 
of  a  big  soup-pot,  the  national  puchero.  The 
cook,  a  bashful  young  woman,  who  blushes 
prettily  on  the  slightest  provocation,  makes 
a  good  contrast  to  these  dark-skinned,  mus- 
cular men,  who,  teasing  one  another  in  a 
good-natured  way,  seem  to  have  the  best 
time  in  the  world.  At  the  entrance  -  door 
a  band  of  famished  cats  and  dogs,  too  well 
trained  to  dare  to  approach,  look  on  with 
flaming  eyes,  uttering  half-suppressed  whines. 
Everyone  treats  us  with  extreme  courtesy 
and  kindness,  and  I  doubt  if  in  any  other 
country  the  stranger  could  find  such  manners 
and  such  tact  among  a  set  of  low  laborers 
like  this.  After  lunch  I  was  shown  into  a 
little  whitewashed  room,  dark  and  cool, 

1 68 


* 


IP 


El  Toboso 


where  over  a  stone  bench  a  couch  of  mats 
had  been  arranged,  and  I  was  left  alone  for 
a  much-needed  bit  of  siesta. 

As  it  was  harvest -time  the  place  was 
lively,  but  most  of  the  year  the  casero  (farm- 
er, or  rather  guardian  of  the  farm)  is  alone 
with  the  dogs  and  his  Winchester,  and  the 
large  gates  being  closed,  the  quinteria  be- 
comes a  fortress.  The  casero  then  does 
patrol-duty  to  prevent  damage  to  the  fields 
and  possible  raids  against  the  stores  of  grain, 
provisions,  and  wine.  In  lonely  places  such 
as  these,  caseros  have  an  exciting  life,  and 
few  of  them  are  there  who  reach  an  old  age. 
This  one  thinks  the  game  worth  the  candle. 
"  It  is  a  fine  life,  sir,"  he  tells  me,  while  ca- 
ressing his  Winchester;  "plenty  to  eat  and 
drink,  some  money  besides,  and  then  a 
chance  to  use  one's  gun." 

After  the  siesta  we  resume  our  journey 
over  the  familiar  plain,  where,  far  away  be- 
fore us,  our  goal  appears  as  a  faint  mirage. 
Argamasilla  impresses  one  differently  as  one 
approaches  it  from  some  new  direction. 
Now  it  looks  like  an  Oriental  city,  with  its 
brilliant  white  walls  set  at  the  end  of  an 
alameda,  a  long  oasis  of  grand  poplars  with 

170 


•• 


El  Toboso 


an  undergrowth  of  fig  and  lemon  trees.  The 
whole  picture  has  the  color  of  the  Orient, 
the  same  sky,  the  same  warm  purple  haze 
over  the  horizon,  and  the  plain  is  as  flat  and 
tawny  as  the  desert ;  the  poplars  alone  are 
out  of  place,  and  palm-trees  are  lacking  to 
make  the  likeness  complete. 


172 


VI 

The  Morena 


The  Morena 


THE  trip  to  the  Sierra 
Morena  was  my  sole 
infidelity  to  Ezechiel. 
On  the  eve  of  departure 
from  Argamasilla  we  had 
an  interview  that  is  likely 
to  remain  one  of  my  rarest 
recollections.     It  was  my 
last  dinner  at  the  Posada 
del  Carmen,  where,  as  the 
honored    guest,    Ezechiel 
behaved  with  his  usual  dignity  and  tact,  his 
gentle  voice  adding  charm  to  his  words. 

The  meal  over,  we  walked  across  the  way 
to  the  one  shop  of  the  place,  whose  meagre 
stock  of  cotton  goods  was  displayed  in  a 
low  room  no  larger  than  six  by  ten  feet,  that, 
in  order  to  settle  my  accounts  with  him,  I 
might  get  change  for  a  Spanish  bank-note. 
I  counted  the  number  of  douros,  each  one  of 
which  was  the  equivalent  of  a  day  of  his  ser- 
vices and  those  of  his  conveyance,  and  gave 


175 


The  Morena 


them  to  him  with  the  addition  of  an  extra 
compensation. 

The  good  man  counted  the  pieces  carefully 
again  and  again,  looked  puzzled,  and  finally 
called  my  attention  to  the  mistake  made  in 
giving  him  more  than  his  due.  Whereupon 
explaining  that  it  was  intentional  and  that  I 
wished  I  could  make  it  more,  I  asked  him 
to  accept  the  little  gift  as  a  small  acknowl- 
edgment of  his  loyal  services.  He  con- 
tinued to  look  embarrassed,  but  finally 
thanked  me  for  my  kindness  and  went  away. 
An  hour  after,  he  returned  with  the  extra 
compensation.  "  No,  Senor,"  he  said,  "  I 
can't  take  this.  We  made  our  price.  It 
was  more  than  I  usually  get,  and  as  this  job 
was  an  easy  one,  I  am  the  gainer.  We  stand 
quits,  and  I  could  not  think  well  of  myself 
nor  would  you  think  as  kindly  of  me  if  I 
were  to  take  your  gift." 

"  But,  man,  I  consider  you  have  earned  it 
by  the  money  you  saved  me  in  your  pur- 
chases at  the  posadas." 

"That  was  the  bargain,  Senor.  No,  you 
must  take  this  back.  Let  me  shake  hands 
with  you  as  with  a  friend,  and  God  be  with 
you  and  yours." 

176 


The  Morena 


I  deplored  the  necessity  which  deprived 
me  of  his  faithful  attendance,  but  his  little 
mule  could  not  have  made  the  long,  arduous 
journey  to  and  from  the  Morena  without 
taking  much  more  time  than  I  had  at  my 
disposal.  There  are  such  incidents  in  one's 
happiest  experiences,  and  this  loss  of  Eze- 
chiel's  companionship  I  could  not  help  feel- 
ing keenly  as  the  premonition  of  the  hum- 
drum days  of  civilized  routine  that  were  to 
follow  my  last  excursion  into  La  Mancha. 
It  was  unreasonable,  of  course,  for  journeys 
like  these  derive  their  interest  from  the  con- 
trast they  make  to  one's  ordinary  manner  of 
life. 

I  had  no  other  course  but  to  go  by  rail 
into  the  very  heart  of  the  mountains,  and 


177 


The  Morena 


thereby  make  what  I  thought  would  prove 
a  prosaic  and  hardly  pleasant  beginning. 
But  the  train  crept  along  so  slowly  and  made 
so  long  a  stop  at  every  little  settlement  that 
the  novel  experience  of  being  able  to  exam- 
ine at  leisure  all  details  of  the  landscape 
proved  rather  enjoyable.  Twas  not  in  the 
least  like  the  car-travelling  we  are  accustomed 
to,  but  rather  like  the  progress  of  a  mule  or 
a  horse  going  at  a  brisk  pace. 

At  first  the  flat  country  had  the  familiar 
parched  and  dreary  look,  then,  as  we  went 
along,  the  vineyards  invaded  it  and  soon  filled 
the  plain  in  an  unbroken  mass  as  far  as  the 
eye  could  reach. 

We  passed  through  the  most  famous  wine- 
producing  district  in  Spain.  The  prosperous 
town  which  gives  it  its  name  Valdepenas 
(Valley  of  Stones)  had;  in  spite  of  its  com- 
mercial importance,  the  same  tiled -roof 
houses  scattered  around  a  big  church,  which 
are  so  characteristic  of  Manchegan  villages. 
It  had  an  unexpected  contrast  in  the  shape 
of  some  spick  and  span  modern  -  looking 
bodegas  (distilleries  and  wine  emporiums) 
with  their  names  printed  in  black  letters 
three  feet  high  on  their  dazzling  white  walls. 

178 


The  Morena 


I  suffered  from  the  incongruity  of  seeing 
this  blatant  signature  of  our  civilization  in  so 
primitive  a  place,  and  found  it  particularly 
disagreeable  to  be  so  bluntly  reminded  of 
home. 

Everywhere  from  the  Manchegan  plains 
the  serrated  outline  on  the  southern  horizon 
serves  as  a  weather  bureau.  It  is  the  Mo- 
rena. We  had  been  approaching  it  gradually, 
though  it  seemed  always  out  of  reach.  After 
leaving  the  Valdepenas  region  the  character 
of  the  country  changed,  becoming  more  and 
more  denuded  and  rocky,  and  the  denticu- 
lated Sierra  Morena  I  had  become  familiar 
with  was  lost  to  sight. 


179 


The  Morena 


Having  left  behind  the  yellow  and  purple 
immensity  of  the  plain,  fading  away  like  a 
hazy  sea,  we  found  ourselves,  on  ascending 
the  first  high  spur,  encircled  by  mountains. 
Our  path  became  steeper,  rocky  slopes  being 
piled  one  upon  another  until,  after  a  succes- 
sion of  curves  and  steep  grades,  the  train 
stopped  and  panted  for  breath  at  the  station 
of  Almuradiel. 

Alighting  with  my  scant  luggage  tied  to  a 
crooked  staff,  I  happened  by  lucky  accident 
on  old  Jose*  and  his  antediluvian  mule  and 
cart,  rigged  together  with  broken  harness  and 
pieces  of  rope,  rotten  from  long  service. 
Without  waste  of  words  a  bargain  was  made 
and  off  we  went  toward  the  village  of  Viso 
del  Marques,  the  most  convenient  head- 
quarters for  an  exploration  of  the  mountain- 
ous recesses,  where  some  of  the  strangest 
and  most  wonderful  adventures  befell  our 
friends  of  the  Book. 

What  a  delight  it  was  to  be  on  such  an 
errand  bent  in  these  weird  and  bleak  sur- 
roundings of  romance,  with  the  sun  shining 
fiercely  and  a  cold  wind  blowing  half  a  gale, 
while  fingering,  so  to  speak,  the  interesting 
book  of  Jose"s  wisdom  by  means  of  leading 

i  so 


The  Morena 


questions  concerning  himself,  the  people,  the 
country,  snatching  thus  inevitable  bits  of 
familiar  history  clothed  in  queer  garb,  yet 
nevertheless  recognizable.  Wizen-faced  Jose, 
who  had  seen  eighty  winters  and  improved 
his  opportunities,  could  put  a  lot  of  sense 
and  shrewd  knowledge  into  his  entertaining 
talk. 

We  proceeded  at  a  snail's  pace  on  a  terri- 
ble road,  that  hardly  scratched  the  rocky  soil 
of  a  bleak  plateau.  A  fin-like  barrier  of  sharp, 
serrated  mountains  rose  before  us,  and  on  our 
side  toward  the  south.  Between  and  above 
these  nearer  peaks  others  appeared,  and  in 
the  distance  two  higher  summits,  rather  faint, 
raised  their  lordly  heads.  In  this  savagely 
lonely  and  imposing  ensemble  there  were 
here  and  there,  in  the  ridges  of  the  plateau, 
some  fields  of  vines  and  wheat  accentuat- 
ing its  barrenness.  And  a  few  vigorous 
plants,  dwarfed  by  the  constant  struggle 
against  the  elements  and  holding  to  the  live 
rock  with  hardy  roots  resembling  claws, 
managed  to  brace  themselves  in  the  crevices 
and  stubbornly  resist  the  north  wind's  riotous 
blasts. 

Against  the  same  enemy  Viso  del  Marques 

181 


The  Morena 


huddled  its  solid,  low  houses  in  a  compact 
mass,  appearing  at  a  distance  so  indistin- 
guishable from  its  surroundings  that  only 
on  getting  nearer  to  its  standard  -  bearer, 
the  belfry  tower,  square  and  squatty,  bulging 
out  from  amid  the  little,  irregular  cubes  of 
masonry,  did  I  recognize  them,  not  as  the 
natural  accidents  of  the  landscape,  but  as  the 
abodes  of  a  human  community.  I  fancy  this 
same  mediaeval  tower  must  have  heralded  El 
Viso  to  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  in  their 
flight  toward  the  mountain  fastnesses  after 
their  deliverance  of,  and  scuffle  with,  the  gang 
of  galley-slaves,  or  in  the  words  of  Cid 
Hamet  Benengali's  translator,  "  the  several 
unfortunates  who,  much  against  their  will, 
were  being  carried  to  where  they  had  no  wish 
to  go." 

Shouts,  beating  of  drums,  and  confusing 
sounds,  striking  our  ears  in  the  lulls  between 
the  gusts  of  wind,  proclaimed  the  fact  that 
something  unusual  was  going  on  in  the  vil- 
lage. By  good  fortune  it  chanced  to  be 
the  yearly  local  fiesta,  and  in  the  main  street, 
teeming  with  people,  we  found  it  not  easy  to 
proceed.  Our  aged  steed  started  kicking 
before  a  brawny  Asturian  pedler  of  brass 

182 


The  Morena 


brazeros,  who  beat  his  wares  with  a  stick  the 
better  to  advertise  them. 

Booths  and  tables  were  surrounded  by 
peasant-folk,  whose  serious,  honest  counte- 
nances appeared  hypnotized  by  the  lively  talk 
of  drummers  and  fakirs.  The  male  inhabi- 
tants were  sitting  before  their  doorsteps  en- 
joying the  animated  spectacle,  while  the 
windows  blossomed  with  the  swarthy  faces 
of  excited  women.  Children  and  dogs  ran 
crazily  every  way,  donkeys  brayed,  and  in 
corners  against  the  walls  patient  mules 

183 


The  Morena 


looked  on  through  half-closed  eyes,  shrewd 
and  critical. 

At  the  Casa  Teresa  the  sixty  years'  old 
Senora  Teresa  had  a  fetching  air  of  gentility, 
which,  however,  did  not  disguise  her  keen 
sense  of  business.  She  satisfied  herself  in  a 
few  minutes  of  the  desirability  of  permitting 
me  to  be  her  guest.  She  put  it  in  a  nice 
way,  excluding  the  vulgarity  of  the  word 
boarder,  though  there  was  no  doubt  from 
the  enormity  of  her  demand,  a  peseta  (about 
eighteen  cents)  a  day  for  the  best  room,  that 
" guest"  was  her  sugar-coating  to  a  sharp 
pill.  As  they  say  in  Spain  :  Poderoso  cabal- 
lero  Es  Don  Dincro.  Dios  es  omnipotente 
Y  el  diner o  es  su  t entente.  "  A  powerful 
gentleman  is  Lord  Money.  God  is  all  pow- 
erful and  Money  is  his  lieutenant." 

El  Viso  being  dropped  on  the  edge  of  the 
civilized  world,  with  the  Sierra  and  wilder- 
ness on  the  other  side,  and  removed  therefore 
from  the  track  of  travel,  there  are  no  accom- 
modations for  the  rare  travellers — no  fondas 
nor  posadas — and  this  house  was  the  only 
one  where  the  infrequent  provincial  or  gov- 
ernment employee  coming  for  some  specific 
work — usually  a  tour  of  inspection — could 

184 


The  Morena 


find  shelter.  It  gratified  the  little  busybody 
to  be  brought  into  relations  with  such  im- 
portant personages,  and  while  I  did  not  have 
the  glamour  of  an  official  position  about  me, 
yet  she  was  full  of  cordiality  toward  the  rich 
one  who  could  so  readily  throw  away  eigh- 
teen cents  for  mere  shelter,  when  he  might 
just  as  well  have  slept  under  the  porch  of 
some  house  or  on  a  street  corner  and  saved 
the  precious  money. 

She  proved  to  be  a  capital  cook,  and  her 
house  was  kept  so  scrupulously  neat  that  I 
considered  it  a  privilege  indeed  to  live  in  it. 
And  the  way  she  ordered 
affairs,  with  the  help  of  a 
little  servant -girl,  some 
twelve  years  old,  whom 
she  loved  and  who  loved 
her,  and  managed  her 
rather  decorative  hus- 
band—  a  caballero  who 
did  not  stoop  to  work, 
but  who  was  cuddled 
and  made  much  of — was 
something  delightful.  There  was  as  much 
shrewd  humor,  kindliness,  and  naivete  in 
the  scenes  these  three  people  played  be- 

186 


The  Morena 


fore  me  as  in  the  most  entertaining  chap- 
ter of  Quixote — enough  to  make  the  most 
melancholy  bosom  kindle  with  human  sym- 
pathy. The  small  house  was  unique  of  its 
kind ;  Dona  Teresa's  strong  personality  was 
impressed  upon  everything  in  it,  and  in  such 
a  pronounced  manner  that  to  live  in,  or  enter, 
it  gave  as  novel  a  sensation  as  a  first  visit  to 
a  Japanese  house  might  give. 

As  its  inmates  were  kept  indoors  by  sun  in 
summer  and  snow  in  winter,  the  interior  was 
made  as  attractive  as  possible,  a  home-like 
little  world.  There  were  cats,  birds,  and 
potted  plants  also — who  ever  would  dream 
of  finding  potted  plants  in  a  Manchegan 
house  !  —  more  wonderful  still,  as  in  the 
suburban  home  of  the  Parisian  petit  rentier, 
there  were  vines,  carefully  trained  and 
watched,  and  a  pet  pear-tree  in  the  little 
courtyard  between  the  divisions  of  the  house, 
front  and  back. 

In  the  front  room  were  queerly  shaped 
pieces  of  old  furniture,  connected  by  strips 
of  matting  over  the  spotless  floor  of  hard- 
ened earth,  and  I  soon  learned  that  one  must 
always  walk  in  the  middle  of  the  strips, 
otherwise  the  house-keeper's  distress  was  as 

187 


The  Morena 


painful  to  see  as  her  efforts  to  conceal  it. 
There  were  many  odds  and  ends  of  quaint 
and  curious  brass  things  and  bric-a-brac, 
which  were  to  be  looked  at  and  talked  about 
but  not  touched,  and  chairs  not  to  be  used 


under  any  circumstances.  In  fact  the  favor- 
ite seats  were  a  stone  in  the  courtyard  and  the 
door-sill.  In  my  room  the  beautiful  old  chest 
of  drawers  was  inspected  every  time  I  went 
out,  to  see  that  it  had  not  suffered  injuries 
at  my  inexperienced  hands,  and  my  bed  was 
polished  till  it  shone  like  some  rare  old  bronze. 

188 


The  Morena 


I  could  not  understand  how  the  old  lady 
found  time  to  keep  everything  in  such  perfect 
condition  ;  to  bargain  at  length  and  shrewdly 
over  every  cent  she  spent  on  the  marketing, 
(by  the  way,  the  peasant  tradesmen  never 
were  allowed  to  enter  the  sacred  precincts  of 
the  house,  all  trading  being  done  from  the 
doorsteps)  ;  to  cook  dainty  and  complicated 
dishes ;  to  pay  constant  attention  to  her 
husband  and  her  little  servant,  caressingly 
tending  the  one  and  playing  merrily  with  the 
other  ;  and  to  be  always  ready  for  a  chat 
with  guest  or  neighbor.  But  she  did  it,  and 
managed  it  all  cheerily,  graciously,  with  an 
omnipresent  watchfulness  for  opportunities, 
an  ever-alert  eye  to  business. 

We  spent  the  two  days  of  the  fiesta- 
Teresa's  husband  and  I --roaming  about 
the  streets,  smoking  cigarettes,  meeting  in 
turn  most  of  the  villagers  and  indulging  in 
short  conversations,  the  burden  of  which 
was,  on  the  part  of  my  new  acquaintances, 
the  beauty  of  the  fiesta — the  like  of  which 
had  not  been  seen  for  many  years.  They 
were  good  representatives  of  mountaineers, 
people  of  few  words,  sound  on  things 
essential,  and  loving  the  comparative  free- 

189 


The  Morena 


dom  of  their  seclusion  from  the  rest  of  the 
world. 

While  enjoying  the  fiesta  they  looked 
with  disfavor  upon  the  foreign  element,  as 
they  called  it,  of  travelling  merchants,  who 
had  invaded  their  village  to  sell  the  few  sim- 
ple things  they  needed — harnesses,  potter- 
ies, kitchen  utensils,  cotton  and  woollen 
cloths,  kerchiefs,  and  trinkets.  There  was 
no  sympathy,  no  assimilation  between  them. 
It  was  like  the  attitude  of  society  toward 
actors,  here  quite  justified,  for  the  strangers, 
riffraff  of  all  provinces  of  Spain,  were  a 
tough  set,  crafty,  trying  to  cheat  wherever 
they  could,  but  knowing  also  how  to  curb 
their  impudence  at  any  intimation  that  the 
temper  of  the  buyer  was  aroused. 

The  bull-fight  had  been  the  attraction  of 
the  day  before  my  arrival,  not  such  a  bull- 
fight as  one  sees  in  cities,  but  a  purely  local 
affair  gotten  up  only  when  the  flesh  of  the 
poor  brute — the  most  ferocious  animal  of  the 
village  herds  —  is  sold  beforehand.  Even 
the  poorest  have  something  to  spend  in  view 
of  such  an  event,  in  which  everyone  takes 
part,  the  bull-ring  being  the  great  courtyard 
of  a  neighboring  mediaeval  castle.  As  a  re- 

190 


The  Morena 


suit  of  this  democratic  slaughter,  the  man 
who  succeeds  in  dealing  the  death-blow  is 
looked  upon  as  the  village  hero  and  fol- 
lowed the  ensuing  year  by  admiring  eyes 
wherever  he  goes.  I  had  the  honor  of 
meeting  the  butcher  -  boy  who  had  just 
achieved  this  distinction,  and  found  him 
fully  aware  of  his  importance. 

Fortunately   the    temporary    theatre,    set 


upon  the  public  square,  remained.  Perform- 
ances were  given  whenever  an  audience  col- 
lected, attracted  by  the  inducements  vocifer- 
ously shouted  in  a  hoarse,  husky  voice  by 

191 


11  <\\r' 


t 


The  Morena 


the  fellow  who  assumed  the  manifold  duties 
of  manager,  actor,  and,  if  not  playwright,  at 
least,  adapter  of  plays.  After  the  traditional 
custom,  each  piece  opened  with  a  prologue 
and  ended  with  a  string  of  jests  and  apologies 
to  the  audience ;  each  personage  coming  or 
going  without  the  slightest  regard  to  the  un- 
folding of  the  story,  its  possibilities,  or  lim- 
itations of  time. 

Theatre  and  performances  can,  in  fact,  be 
well  described  in  the  words  of  Cervantes, 
speaking  of  the  dramatist  Lope  de  Rueda  : 

•"  In  the  time  of  this  celebrated  Spaniard," 
says  Cervantes,  "  the  whole  apparatus  of  a 
manager  was  contained  in  a  large  sack,  and 
consisted  of  four  white  shepherd's  jackets, 
turned  up  with  leather,  gilt  and  stamped  ; 
four  beards  and  false  sets  of  hanging  locks, 
and  four  shepherd's  crooks,  more  or  less. 
The  plays  were  colloquies,  like  eclogues,  be- 
tween two  or  three  shepherds  and  a  shep- 
herdess, fitted  up  and  extended  with  two 
or  three  interludes,  whose  personages  were 
sometimes  a  negress,  sometimes  a  bully, 
sometimes  a  fool,  and  sometimes  a  Biscayan  ; 
for  all  these  four  parts,  and  many  others, 
Lope  himself  performed  with  the  greatest 
193 


The  Morena 


excellence  and  skill  that  can  be  imagined. 
.  .  .  The  theatre  was  composed  of  four 
benches,  arranged  in  a  square,  with  five  or 
six  boards  laid  across  them,  that  were  thus 
raised  about  four  palms  from  the  ground. 
.  .  .  The  furniture  of  the  theatre  was  an 
old  blanket,  drawn  aside  by  two  cords,  mak- 
ing what  they  call  the  tiring-room,  behind 
which  were  the  musicians,  who  sang  old  bal- 
lads without  a  guitar." 

Performances,  then  as  now,  occurred  when- 
ever an  audience  could  be  gathered,  appar- 
ently both  forenoon,  afternoon,  and  even- 
ing, for  at  the  end  of  one  of  his  plays  Lope 
invites  his  "  hearers  only  to  eat  their  dinners 
and  return  to  the  square  and  witness  an- 
other." The  most  useful  personage  appeared 
to  me  to  be  the  fool,  who  happened  in  at 
unexpected  moments,  usually  when  the  at- 
tention of  the  audience  waned,  and  was 
kicked  and  abused  with  bad  words  and 
blows  for  his  stupid  simplicity.  The  specta- 
tors were  silent,  laughing  rarely,  and  looking 
upon  the  antics  of  the  buffoon  with  extreme 
seriousness. 

El  Viso  has  a  post  of  the  Guardia  Civile. 
The  district  being  in  large  part  impractica- 

194 


The  Morena 


ble  for  horses,  these  men  radiating  from  head- 
quarters here  have  to  cover  on  foot  some 
fifteen  miles  as  the  crow  flies,  in  every  di- 
rection. This  profession  is  not  a  sinecure 
in  the  Morena.  Guardias,  alternating  night 
with  day  work,  are  on  patrol  duty  sixteen 
out  of  the  twenty-four  hours,  the  remaining 
being  devoted  to  their  families  (all  being 
married  as  a  rule)  and  to  needful  rest. 
They  are  under  an  effective  system  which 
controls  their  movements  even  in  remote 
and  deserted  places,  and  going  always  in 
pairs,  are  never  sent  twice  in  succession  on 
the  same  route.  All  they  receive  for  their 


services  is  less  than  thirty  cents  of  our 
money  per  day,  out  of  which  they  pay  for 
their  clothes,  food,  lodging,  etc. 

I  had  presented  my  request  for  the  neces- 

195 


The  Morena 


sary  escort,  without  which  it  would  not 
have  been  safe  to  make  the  excursion  I  had 
planned,  and  the  morning  after  the  festivities 
started  at  a  brisk  pace  between  two  young 
Guardias,  with  Winchesters  on  their  shoul- 
ders, who  walked  with  the  short  Spanish  mili- 
tary step,  pretty  but  ineffective  and  grotesque 
compared  with  the  long,  swinging  motion, 
bending  low  the  knees,  of  the  Swiss  moun- 


\ 


taineers.  The  Guardias'  tight  uniforms  of 
heavy,  dark  cloth  (alike  in  summer  and 
winter)  made  them  look  clumsy  and  stiff 
as  dressed -up  doll  soldiers,  their  heavily 

196 


The  Morena 


fringed  black  eyes  and  long  twisted  mus- 
tachios  adding  an  element  of  make-believe 
fierceness  such  as  one  expects  nowhere  but 
in  stageland. 

We  went  up  a  slope,  which,  ending  abruptly 
a  short  distance  above,  seemed  to  be  sur- 
mounted by  a  sober  mass  of  deep  purple, 
the  chain  of  summits  forming  the  dorsal  fin 
of  the  Sierras. 

After  that  first  impression  we  found  our- 
selves going  down  and  across  desert  ridges 
and  spurs  whose  monotonous,  tawny  hide 
made  the  most  effective  of  foregrounds  to 
the  great  serrated  mountains  unveiled  now 

197 


The  Morena 


from  base  to  summit,  their  shapes  and  scars 
blended  into  an  harmonious  medley  of  lu- 
minous colors — stepping-stones  to  the  inex- 
pressible radiance  of  the  unbroken,  deep 
azure  above. 

Our  path  went  meandering  downward 
over  the  sharp,  live  rock  which  cut  into  one's 
shoes,  and  as  we  advanced  the  rugged  deso- 
lation of  our  surroundings  made  the  airy  and 
transparent  curtain  of  the  Sierras,  growing  in 
height  before  us,  seem  a  mirage.  It  was  the 
right  time  to  call  to  mind  the  passage  where 
Cervantes  describes  the  knight's  feelings  in 
such  a  place  as  this  : 

"And  as  they  entred  in  farther  among 
those  mountaines,  we  cannot  recount  the  joy 
of  our  Knight,  to  whom  those  places  seemed 
most  accommodate  to  atchieve  the  advent- 
ures he  searched  for.  They  reduced  to  his 
memory  the  marvellous  accidents  that  had 
befalne  Knights  Errant  in  like  solitudes 
and  desarts  :  and  he  rode  so  overwhelmed 
and  transported  by  these  thoughts,  as  he 
remembred  nothing  else.  Nor  Sancho  had 
any  other  care  (after  he  was  out  of  feare  to 
be  taken)  but  how  to  fill  his  belly  with  some 
of  these  relikes  which  yet  remained  of  the 

199 


The  Morena 


Clerical!  spoyles ;  and  so  hee  followed  his 
lord,  taking  now  and  then  out  of  a  basket 
(which  Rozinante  carried  for  want  of  the 
Asse)  some  meat,  lining  therewithall  his 
paunch ;  and  whilst  he  went  thus  imployed, 
he  would  not  have  given  a  mite  to  encoun- 
ter any  other  adventure  how  honourable  so- 
ever." (Part  i,  Chapter  XXIII.,  THOMAS 
SHELTON'S  TRANSLATION.) 

Like  Sancho,  our  companions  and  guests, 
Dona  Teresa,  her  husband,  and  her  little 
maid -servant,  who  were  following  us  in 
Jose"s  cart,  whiled  the  time  away  by  eating 
greased  banuelos  *  and  drinking  the  power- 
ful Valdepenas — a  combination  which  made 
them  superbly  oblivious  to  jolting  and  heat. 
And  ever  and  anon,  the  irrepressible  flow  of 
their  high  spirits  burst  forth  into  extempo- 
raneous and  hurriedly  recited  litanies,  ending 
in  long,  piercing  notes,  and  celebrating  the 
giver  of  the  feast,  the  beauty  of  the  day,  and 
the  joy  of  their  hearts. 

One  loses  all  sense  of  direction  in  these 
chaotic  wastes,  peopled  only  by  flocks  of 

*  A  fried  pasty  without  any  filling,  which  is  the  dainty  break- 
fast dish  in  well-to-do  families  of  Southern  Spain  and  among  the 
Moors  of  Northern  Africa. 


200 


The  Morena 


hills  pressing  around  and  filling  the  horizon 
on  three  sides  with  strange  and  varied  forms. 
The  heat  is  stifling  in  these  closed  gulleys, 
and  it  was  only  when  our  descent  suddenly 
ceased  and  we  began  to  ascend  that  one 
could  breathe  comfortably.  Leafage  ap- 
peared over  the  last  hill  and  we  soon  reached 
our  goal,  a  garden  of  luxuriant  vegetation, 
topped  with  cork,  chestnut,  and  oak  trees, 
brought  to  life  by  a  boisterous  little  stream 
of  exquisitely  pure  water. 

We    paid    our    respects    to   two   elderly 
gentlewomen,  sisters  of  a  dead   canon,  and 


201 


The  Morena 


drank  slowly  at  the  spring  situated  before 
the  door  of  their  stone  cottage,  their  hired 
men  coming  and  remaining  to  silently  gaze 
upon  us  till  we  resumed  our  march. 

Following  the  stream  through  the  gar- 
dens, crossing  and  recrossing  it,  jumping 
over  mud  walls,  stooping  low  under  pear-  and 
apple-trees,  we  came  at  last  upon  a  family 
of  children  taking  a  bath  under  the  watch- 
ful eyes  of  the  mother.  A  little  naked  boy, 
frightened  at  our  appearance,  burst  out  cry- 
ing and  calling  "  Mamma,"  while  his  little 
girl  companions  laughed  at  him  and  at  us. 

The  contents  of  the  cart  were  unloaded  in 
a  secluded  spot  on  the  edge  of  the  oasis. 
The  members  of  our  party  set  about  busily 
getting  wood  and  water,  and  putting  wine 
and  vegetables  to  cool  in  a  deep  pool.  When 
the  fire  was  lit,  if  someone  wandered  away, 
it  was  only  for  a  moment,  soon  returning  to 
resume  his  patient  watch  before  the  frying- 
pan,  over  which  Dona  Teresa  presided.  Pa- 
thetic spectacle — this  fascination  food  exerts 
over  these  people,  for  it  means  simply  that 
they  have  not  often  a  chance  to  do  full  jus- 
tice to  their  appetites.  They  are  like  the 
Arabs,  who,  living  on  the  most  frugal  and 

202 


to  Los  Molinos. 


The  Morena 


scanty  diet,  whenever  opportunity  offers, 
have  their  revenge  and  gorge  themselves  to 
the  verge  of  stupor. 

We  had  a  jolly  time  discussing  the  elabo- 
rate repast,  Teresa's  flow  of  unexpected  sallies 
making  the  eyes  of  the  Guardias  bulge  out 
comically,  and  interfering  with  the  attention 
they  gave  to  the  business  of  filling  up. 

"  Take  care,  honey,  wine  makes  the  whisk- 
ers grow  and  the  beaux  fly,"  she  remarked  to 
the  girl-servant  about  to  take  wine,  and  who 


protested  that  she  was  not  covetous,  and  did 
not  care  a  wild  fig  for  any  beaux.  Teresa 
quoted:  "  He  that  lies  most  will  sin  most" 


204 


The  Morena 


(Quien  mas  miente,  medra  mas),  an  old 
proverb  which  was  chosen  by  Quevedo  as  the 
title  of  one  of  his  plays ;  and  winked  at  her 
husband,  "  in  faith  she'll  have  dozens  of  them. 
I  keep  my  eye  on  her,  but  what's  the  good, 
1  my  mother  beats  me  and  I  whip  the  toys  '  " 
(Castigame  mi  madre  y  yo  trompogelas),  one 
of  Quevedo's  proverbs  which,  applied  here, 
means  I  chastise  her  but  she  continues  to 
play  her  game.  To  which  the  child  an- 
swered, sotto-voce,  "  It's  not  my  fault,  any- 
how. '  No  con  quien  naces  sino  con  quien 
paces'  Not  with  whom  thou  art  bred  but 
with  whom  thou  art  fed." 

The  eatables  disposed  of,  the  wine-skins 
empty,  even  the  gallon  of  salad  mixture- 
equal  parts  of  vinegar  and  water  in  which 
tomatoes,  cucumbers,  and  onions  had  swum 
—drunk  and  relished,  the  only  possible  out- 
come of  this  gastronomic  debauchery  in  such 
a  place  was  the  immediate  siesta  in  which  all 
indulged. 

On  waking  I  saw  my  companions  strewn 
about  sound  asleep  in  the  shade,  their  arms 
under  their  flushed  cheeks.  Near  the  cart 
the  gaunt  old  mule  was  munching  her  fodder, 
her  ribbed  anatomy  brought  out  by  light  and 

205 


Molinos. 


The  Morena 


shadow.  At  the  foot  of  the  meadow  the  lit- 
tle servant-girl  hummed  softly  to  herself. 
Bud  of  a  potential  coquette  she  was  re- 
hearsing her  artful  feminine  tricks,  tilting 
her  head,  making  a  pretence  to  courtesy,  and 
essaying  some  particularly  fetching  dance  fig- 
ure. 

A  grove  of  tall  chestnuts  and  pines  on 
the  edge  of  the  meadow  encircled  the  square 
stone  basin  where  the  precious  benefactor  of 
the  gardens  had  its  source.  From  its  bottom 
of  sand  and  pebbles  there  rose  through  the 
clear  crystal  continuous  strings  of  bubbles. 
Fish  swam  in  and  out  of  the  moss  which 
clothed  the  stone  and  floated  on  the  surface 
of  the  water,  and  dragon-flies  and  swallows, 
darting  in  rapid  zigzags,  snatched  a  tiny 
drink. 

The  deep  silence  was  broken  by  the  spas- 
modic, harmonious  tinkling  of  the  mule-bells 
and  the  far-away  trill  of  a  solitary  song-bird. 
The  wind,  gathering  strength  as  it  approached, 
like  waves  galloping  to  the  shore,  came  in 
recurrent  gusts  with  long  rustlings  agitating 
the  tree-tops.  Between  the  tree-trunks,  ap- 
parently near  enough  to  touch,  our  big  neigh- 
bors, the  enormous  cliffs,  blazed  in  the  flam- 
207 


The  Morena 


Il» 


boyant  light  which  revealed  the  strangely 
colored  veins  running  through  their  precipi- 
tous declivities,  and  all  their  wealth  of  pict- 
uresque and  rugged  beauty.  In  a  like  place 
the  knight  performed  his  self-imposed  pen- 
ance "  at  the  foot  of  a  lofty  mountain  "  along 
the  skirt  of  which  ran  "  a  gentle  streamlet" 
encircling  "  a  green  and  luxuriant  meadow." 
It  maybe  the  very  spot  Cervantes  had  in 
mind,  although  the  consensus  of  learned  opin- 
ion has  placed  it  a  few  leagues  farther  east. 
The  impression  made  by  this  happy  and 
peaceful  little  world,  with  its  running  water 

208 


•W:.:;l;  ^f^^P^SfPf^v^  £U^- '-"--.-I  "';•- 

lil^SMweif 


1 

fei^fti 

iK^^*? 


'^ 


The  Pia  del  Panero. 


The  Morena 


and  luxuriance  of  vegetation  in  the  midst 
of  the  most  forbidding  scenery,  was  like  that 
of  an  oasis  in  the  limitless  sands  of  the 
Sahara. 

We  started  late  for  El  Viso.  The  sun 
was  burning,  yet  long  before  reaching  the 
hospitable  Casa  Teresa  we  wrapped  our- 
selves in  overcoats  and  blankets,  the  transi- 
tion at  sunset  being  so  abrupt  from  heat  to 
cold. 

I  went  to  Los  Molinos  alone  with  my 
couple  of  Guardias,  it  being  far  too  hard  an 
excursion  for  the  Senora  and  her  husband- 
taking  one  as  it  did  into  "the  very  bow- 
els of  the  mountain,"  in  the  midst  of  such 
wild  scenery  as  Cervantes  described  in  those 
chapters  wherein  are  recounted  the  knight's 
adventures  with  the  Tattered  One,  Car- 
denio. 

This  deserted,  trackless  maze  of  rough  hills 
and  valleys,  inaccessible  except  to  men  who 
know  the  ground  well,  was  in  old  days  the 
refuge  of  those  who  sought  escape  from  jus- 
tice and  from  the  Inquisition,  and  until  the 
last  generation  they  were  the  haunts  of  bands 
of  brigands,  whose  bloody  exploits  remaining 
vividly  impressed  upon  the  popular  imagina- 

210 


The  Morena 


tion,  are  still  on  the  lips  of  men,  women,  and 
children  in  the  region. 

It  took  us  fourteen  hours  of  the  hardest 
walking  to  get  to  the  mill,  which,  in  spite  of 
the  dangerous  path  connecting  it  with  the 
rest  of  the  world,  is  not  altogether  abandoned. 
Water-power  is  scarce,  fuel  too  expensive, 
and  so  with  serious  risks  of  losing  mules  or 
sacks  of  flour  on  the  way,  this  mill,  whose 
fine  water-power  can  turn  out  flour  cheaply, 
is  perforce  patronized  by  the  poorer  folks 
alone,  and  kept  going  a  few  months  of  the 
year. 

Not  only  is  the  way  dangerous  for  beasts, 
but  it  is  not  without  perils  for  the  pedestrian. 
The  shiny,  smooth  rock  or  the  loose,  broken 
stones  on  the  steep  descents  offering  an 
equally  uncertain  footing,  may  easily  be  the 
means  of  landing  him  at  the  bottom  of  a 
precipice.  The  path  is  staked  out  with 
heaps  of  stones,  perpetuating  the  memory  of 
such  accidents,  and  to  each  of  these,  follow- 
ing the  custom,  we  religiously  added  a  stone 
in  passing.  This  custom  is  still  enforced 
nowadays  in  Sicily  and  in  the  whole  of 
Northern  Africa. 

But  the  scenery  was    grand    in  the    ex- 

211 


The  Morena 


treme.  Titanic  crags  alternated  with  groves 
of  robust  myrtles  and  lentisks,  with  slopes 
where  the  trailing  arbutus  and  laurels 
grew  in  profusion  above  carpets  of  daisies 
and  carnations  in  the  valleys  whose  air  was 
pungent  with  penetrating  aromas.  We 
found  out  the  truth  of  the  proverb  (no 
hay  atajo  sin  trabajo)  "  there  is  no  short 
cut  without  hard  work  "  in  the  last  part  of 
the  journey,  which  we  made  jumping  from 
boulder  to  boulder,  after  the  fashion  of  Car- 
denio,  the  One  Crazed  by  Love.  It  was  the 
only  way  to  reach  our  destination  quickly, 
and  as  safe  a  one  as  the  mule-path. 

Set  at  the  bottom  of  a  narrow  pit,  sur- 
rounded on  all  sides  with  almost  perpendicu- 
lar giant  walls  that  seemed  about  to  crush  it, 
was  the  mill,  the  most  forlorn,  miserable  place 
I  had  as  yet  seen.  Untenanted  at  the  time, 
it  stared  at  us  from  its  windowless  apertures 
like  a  corpse  from  eyeless  sockets.  Behind 
its  rotten  door  we  found,  tenanted  by  bats 
and  rats,  a  dirty  room  whose  vast,  musty 
emptiness,  framed  by  tottering  walls,  pro- 
duced a  tragic  and  forlorn  impression.  There 
was  no  relief  in  anything.  All  was  abjectly 
sordid — hopeless.  The  water  was  icy  cold 

212 


The  Morena 


and  so  was  the  night.  We  built  a  fire  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor  and  slept  by  it,  each 
one  of  us  keeping  watch  in  turn. 

When  I  arrived  at  El  Viso  the  next  night, 
thoroughly  exhausted,  I  felt  as  if  I  had  been 
through  one  of  the  circles  of  the  Inferno. 


213 


VII 

Venta  de  Cardenas 


,-T    ' 


Venta  de  Cardenas 

1LEFT  Viso  with  Jose*  and  his  cart  and 
two  Guardias  in  the  middle  of  one  of 
those  starry  nights  when  the  atmosphere 
is  diaphanous  and  a  warm  wind,  velvety  and 
caressing,  makes  travelling  an  unadulterated 
pleasure,  even  if  the  prospects  for  the  com- 
ing day  are  fraught  with  the  probabilities 
of  a  thunder-storm. 

After  a  league  or  more  I  found  myself  on 
the  same  Royal  Highway  connecting  Madrid 
with  Seville  that  had  led  me  formerly  toward 
Toboso.  We  followed  it  southward  where 
the  divers  groups  of  the  Sierra  summits  were 
distributed  about  us  in  an  architectural  con- 
fusion full  of  striking  character  that  changed 
alluringly  with  the  direction,  the  ascents  and 
descents  of  the  road. 

A  few  ruins  alone  remain  to  tell  of  the 
ancient  prosperity  and  busy  life  of  this  great 
thoroughfare,  whose  solid  construction  still 
defies  the  elements.  We  called  for  a  cup  of 
coffee  at  the  ruins  of  a  Venta  where,  in  the 

217 


Venta  de  Cardenas 


two  rooms  still  intact  lived  a  young  couple, 
the  man  surly,  the  woman  with  the  look  of  a 
beaten  hound,  both  with  manners  strangely 
constrained  that  made  us  silent  and  uncom- 
fortable. The  Guardias  explained,  when  we 
were  on  our  way  again,  how  the  husband 
was  jealous  of  his  wife,  and  that  was  why 
they  lived  in  such  a  wilderness,  miles  away 
from  any  human  being. 

At  the  lowest  point  of  a  long  descent  the 
road  turned  abruptly  to  the  right,  crossing  a 
bridge  thrown  over  a  rapid  torrent.  Fac- 
ing the  bridge  and  tumbling  down  hill  was 
an  avalanche  of  gigantic  bowlders,  the  road 
turning  from  them  straight  down  and  follow- 
ing the  other  side  of  the  torrent,  which  it  re- 
crossed  at  another  bridge  a  hundred  yards 
below.  These  bowlders,  commanding  the 
road,  long  stretches  of  which  were  visible 
above  and  below,  afford  an  ideal  place  for 
brigands  to  lie  in  ambush.  And  in  this  place 
more  murders  and  robberies  have  been  com- 
mitted than  in  all  the  rest  of  Spain,  so  my 
Guardias  said.  Until  the  introduction  of  the 
Remington  and  Martini-Henry  rifles,  mules 
and  loads  were  stolen,  coaches  held  up,  and 
when  travellers  refused  to  surrender  or  made 

218 


Venta  de  Cardenas 


a  show  of  resistance  they  were  butchered  and 
their  heads  cut  off  and  set  on  the  parapet  of 
the  bridge  to  serve  as  a  warning. 

On  one  of  the  summits  to  the  right  of  the 
road,  the  cavern  of  the  Paolos,  head-quarters 
of  a  renowned  band,  was  visible.  The  Pao- 
los were  brothers  in  blood  and  crime  whose 
exploits  were  among  the  choicest  bogy  tales 
with  which  Jose*,  who  had  seen  one  of  the 
Paolos,  regaled  me.  They  were  grewsome 
and  revolting  stories. 

Thanks  mainly  to  the  efficient  work  of  the 
Guardia  Civile  the  road  is  now  absolutely 
safe  from  brigands,  and  has  been  for  long, 
yet  when  I  questioned  my  men  as  to  what 
possible  dangers  there  could  be  for  me  in 
travelling  alone  about  here,  they  said  that 
there  would  be  none  for  poor  people,  but 
that  some  rough,  ignorant  chap  of  an  ar- 
riero  who  happened  to  cross  my  path  might 
take  a  notion  to  put  his  steel  into  me  on  the 
chance  of  finding  a  peseta  or  something  bet- 
ter on  my  person.  The  amusing  thing  about 
it  was,  that  with  my  scanty  and  poor  Man- 
chegan  habiliments  I  had  imagined  myself 
an  ideal  picture  of  a  penniless  tramp. 

The  road  continued  to  skirt  the  waterway, 
219 


Venta  de  Cardenas 


which,  losing  its  wildness,  had  now  become 
a  gently  bubbling  little  river.  The  railroad 
overtaking  it  passed  over  it,  and  with  river 
and  railroad  for  constant  company  we  kept 
on  steadily  down  grade,  meeting  not  a  soul. 
No  trains  passed,  and  the  noise  of  the  waters 
was  the  only  voice  breaking  the  oppressive 
stillness. 

The  mountains  gradually  crowded  upon  us 
and   towered   high    with    their  garments   of 


220 


Venta  de  Cardenas 


woods,  pierced  through  in  places  by  pris- 
matic excrescences  of  rock.  Our  path  was 
strewn  with  falling  debris,  constantly  disin- 
tegrated from  the  rocks  by  the  action  of  the 
elements.  Rich,  metallic  chunks  of  quartz 
showed  the  wealth  lying  fallow  in  these 
Morena  Mountains,  celebrated  even  in  the 
days  of  the  Roman  occupation  for  mines  of 
copper,  lead,  antimony,  and  silver  which  have 
been  abandoned  or  forgotten  for  centuries. 


Venta  de  Cardenas 


Before  the  lonely  station  of  Venta  de 
Cardenas  we  came  upon  the  most  miserable 
settlement  of  any  on  my  travels.  A  half- 
dozen  low,  windowless,  mud  hovels,  wallowed 
in  pools  of  filth  where  pigs  rooted  and  chick- 
ens waded.  Repulsive  specimens  of  human- 
ity, in  vile  rags  and  tatters,  and  dirty  beyond 
imagining,  slouched  in  doorways,  regarding 
us  with  stupid  stares.  One  felt  that  any 
moment  they  might  go  down  on  all-fours 
and  grovel  with  the  animals  from  which  they 
seemed  so  slightly  removed. 

How  these  beings  can  continue  so  low  in 


Venta  de  Cardenas 


the  human  scale  in  a  country  where  the 
land  could,  with  labor,  be  made  to  bear  de- 
cent returns  is  a  puzzling  question,  unless 
one  considers  the  answer  to  be  the  owner- 
ship of  the  mountains  by  rich  proprietors 
who  are  keeping  them  as  game  preserves. 

These  peasants  have  no  resource  but 
poaching.  Too  ignorant  to  know  how  to 
send  the  game  they  kill  to  the  cities  by  rail, 
and  unable  to  dispose  of  it  in  the  miserable 
villages  of  the  region,  they  simply  kill  in  or- 
der to  support  life,  and  their  existence,  passed 
between  eating,  sleeping,  and  outwitting  the 
gamekeepers,  is  as  primitive  and  degraded 
as  that  of  their  ancestors  of  the  Flint  Age. 

Beyond  the  station  the  road  climbs  the 
flanks  of  the  ever-narrowing  valley,  having 
as  protection  on  the  side  of  the  precipice  a 
chaplet  of  moriones,  the  stone  posts  set  up 
every  few  yards  of  the  way,  which  were  so 
typical  and  picturesque  a  feature  of  old 
Spanish  roads.  These  moriones  point  the 
way  to  the  Venta  de  Cardenas,  situated  near 
the  entrance  to  the  celebrated  canon  of  De- 
spenaperros.  It  is  there  that  the  luxuriant 
growth  of  the  cactus  begins  heralding  Anda- 
lusia, whose  very  name  is  music  ;  the  land 

223 


Venta  de  Cardenas 


of  castanets  and  flowers,  of  bewitching  cigar- 
reras  and  dancing  girls,  of  gitanos  and  tore- 
adors, and  all  sorts  of  folk  equally  fascinat- 
ing in  romance  and  commonplace  in  reality. 
Of  old  the  life  of  the  Morena  centred 
about  this  defile  of  Despenaperros,  literally 
meaning,  "  thrown-over  dogs,"  probably  sig- 
nifying that  here  was  seen  the  last  of 
those  infidel  hounds,  the  Moors,  when,  aban- 
doning Toledo  and  their  northern  province, 


they  retreated  toward  Andalusia.     Despena- 
perros  remained  the  dividing-line  between 
Christians  and  Moors  during  the  latter's  oc- 
224 


Venta  de  Cardenas 


cupation  of  Grenada.  It  was  then  the  true 
Portal  of  the  South,  through  which  passed 
all  the  traffic  between  the  capital,  Seville, 
and  Andalusia ;  but  in  place  of  the  anima- 
tion of  old  days,  the  strings  of  coaches  and 
troops  of  loaded  mules,  there  are,  but  a  few 
times  a  day,  the  screeching  whistle  and  rum- 
bling noise  of  a  railway  train.  It  is  still  the 
gate  of  Andalusia,  but  its  life  has  vanished, 
and  it  is  probably  more  lonely  now  than  it 
225 


Night  Scene  at  the  Venta  de  Cardenas. 


Venta  de  Cardenas 


has  been  at  any  time  since  the  Romans  con- 
quered Iberia. 

The  Venta  de  Cardenas,  precious  relic  of 
the  times  when  travelling  was  done  by  car- 
riages or  on  foot,  looks  down  upon  the  only 
new  feature  of  the  scene,  its  enemy,  the  rail- 
road. What  a  brilliant,  active,  well-filled 
life  the  old  caravansary  has  had  !  How  many 
historical  figures — kings  and  queens,  princes 
of  the  Church  and  ambassadors,  captains  and 
merchants  from  the  Indies — have  stopped 
within  its  walls,  elbow  to  elbow  with  the 
common  fray,  the  muleteers,  and  soldiers. 
It  remains  substantially  as  it  was  built  over 
three  centuries  ago,  solid,  though  neglected 
and  telling  its  pathetic  story  in  its  old  stones, 
enormous  stables,  and  big  gateway,  large 
enough  for  two  royal  carriages  to  pass 
through. 

We  had  a  noonday  feast  in  the  grand  old 
place.  The  ama,  a  fine  type  of  Mar  Homes, 
deigned  to  do  the  cooking.  (True,  there 
were  no  servants.)  The  place  had  a  fine 
air,  and  pigeons,  and  chickens,  cats  and 
swallows,  filled  its  lofty  emptiness  with 
some  sort  of  life.  In  the  enormous  room 
where  we  walked  about  and  lay  down  to  rest, 
227 


Venta  de  Cardenas 


which  is  hall,  dining-room,  and  carriage-house 
combined,  a  hundred  of  our  carts  could 
have  moved  about  easily. 

When  our  little  party  sat  before  the  low 
bench,  over  which  a  couple  of  partridges  and 
a  rabbit  made  a  brave  show  side  by  side 
with  the  palatable  salad  of  cucumbers  and 
tomatoes  swimming  in  a  big  bowl  of  vinegar 
and  water,  we  all  dipped  our  spoons  demo- 
cratically into  the  dish,  while  cats  and  chick- 

228 


Venta  de  Cardenas 


ens,  trooping  around,  begged,  each  after  his 
fashion,  and  not  being  gratified,  attempted  to 
steal. 

Two  miserable  fellows  in  scanty  attire  of 
shirt  and  trousers,  and  those  not  whole,  and 
with  scarlet  kerchiefs  tied  on  their  heads, 
came  in  with  the  defiant  alertness  of  true  Bo- 
hemians. They  did  not  succeed  in  disguising 
their  half-rowdy,  half-gypsy  looks  even  before 


the  Guardias.  Having  saluted  every  one  with 
a  word,  they  sat  down  by  the  wall  opposite 
us,  depositing  with  extreme  care  a  bundle  of 
rags,  from  which  emerged  a  straight  sword, 

229 


Venta  de  Cardenas 


carefully  wrapped  up.  "  Toreros"  Jose  said. 
One  was  no  more,  evidently,  than  an  acolyte, 
some  apprenticed  bander illero}  probably  ;  the 
other — the  espada — had  a  strikingly  hand- 
some face,  yet  with  a  sinister  hint  of  the 
devil  upon  it.  A  lithe  and  muscular  figure, 
he  stood  against  the  wall  as  gracefully  poised 
as  a  Greek  statue.  He  asked  a  few  ques- 
tions, answered  charily  by  our  guards,  who 
put  on  an  official  attitude  of  disapprobation. 
The  strangers  were  Andalusians  going  to  the 
province  of  Ciudad  Real  (La  Mancha)  to 
see  if  they  could  find  out  when  and  where 
the  little  local  bull-fights  took  place. 

They  were  blissfully  ignorant  of  the  fact 
that  this  was  the  province  of  Ciudad  Real. 
Apparently  they  thought  of  nothing  besides 
the  artful  tricks  of  the  torero,  and  how  to 
attain  such  proficiency  in  them  as  to  become 
celebrated,  wear  good  clothes,  travel  in  state, 
and  have  their  fill  of  the  best.  Looking  like 
famished  beings  or  feline  beasts  of  prey,  with 
noiseless  and  nimble  gestures,  a  foxy  look  in 
their  eyes,  they  would  not  give  up  their  hope 
of  being  invited  to  join  us  till  the  last  chance 
was  gone.  The  amo,  ama,  and  the  children 
followed  us  at  table,  and  there  was  nothing 

230 


/"?• 


IEJJ- 

In  a  Popular  Resort  of  Seville. 


Venta  de  Cardenas 


left  when  they  finished.  So  I  gave  the  tore- 
ros a  small  silver  coin.  Judging  from  their 
surprised  expression  it  must  have  been  the 
first  they  had  ever  received  in  this  way.  The 
smiles  told  plainly  that  they  were  not  sure 
but  there  was  something  the  matter  with  the 
giver's  wits.  But  they  took  it  and  treasured 
it  in  many  folds  of  a  rag,  and  I  was  con- 
vinced that  when  it  should  leave  its  posses- 
sors it  would  be  for  more  than  an  ordinarily 
full  compensation. 

As  we  stood  by  the  gateway  another  typi- 
cal group  of  barefooted  travellers  made  its 
appearance.  A  woman  sitting  on  the  top 
of  a  load  on  a  donkey's  back,  her  husband 
leading,  two  children  following  behind.  They 
belonged  to  the  fakir  fraternity,  going  from 
village  to  village,  and  fiesta  to  fiesta,  selling 
trinkets,  the  mother  telling  fortunes,  the  boy, 
the  wickedest  little  fellow  I  ever  saw,  mak- 
ing a  specialty  of  the  zapatera,  the  Spanish 
clog  dance.  Upon  the  paterfamilias,  an  ill- 
humored,  villainous-looking  scoundrel,  our 
Guardias  kept  a  close  watch.  Even  old  Jose*, 
who  had  seen  "everything,"  as  he  used  to 
say,  eyed  him  suspiciously  and  remarked  : 
"  He  is  of  the  kind  that  would  cut  a  fellow's 
232 


Venta  de  Cardenas 


throat  just  for  the  fun  of  the  thing."  The 
boy,  with  an  air  of  bravado  sang  a  fragment 
of  a  blasphemous  petenera  : 

I  love  you  more  than  my  life, 

I  love  you  more  than  my  mother; 

And  even  if  it  be  a  sin, 

I  love  you  more  than  the  Virgin  of  Carmel. 

"  Shame ! "  said  one  of  the  Guardias. 
"  Don't  insult  our  Lady  ! "  Whereupon  the 
whole  party  turned  and  looked  at  us  in 
feigned  surprise. 

They  spent  two  cents  for  the  privilege  of 
233 


Organos. 


Venta  de  Cardenas 


using  the  fire  to  cook  something  they  had 
brought  with  them,  and  for  the  few  hours' 
shelter  for  their  beast  and  themselves.  They 
were  in  vile  humor,  having  fared  badly  at 
the  fiesta  of  Viso,  and  while  repacking  their 
donkey's  load  they  gave  utterance  to  their 
contempt  for  the  Morenans,  silly,  common, 
ignorant  folk,  who  would  not  pay  to  be 
amused  nor  buy  good-for-nothing  trinkets. 
However,  all  was  to  be  well  soon,  for  they 
were  on  their  way  to  Seville — "  Paradise," 
they  called  it.  Very  like  Parisians,  these  low 
Sevilians,  who  think  no  other  town  worth 
living  in  but  their  own,  and  look  upon  the 
rest  of  the  world  as  barbarians. 

In  the  afternoon  they  trooped  out  and 
away  toward  their  beloved  goal,  the  little  girl 
turning  somersaults  and  jumping  for  joy,  the 
boy  imitating  the  guitar  accompaniment  to 
the  woman's  song : 

Seville  of  my  soul, 

Seville  of  my  joy ; 

Who  would  not  love  to  be  in  Seville, 

Even  though  he  must  sleep  on  its  cobble-stones  ? 

And  in  the  distance  the  father's  rough 
voice  uttered  loud,  abominable  curses  at  El 
Viso  and  the  Morenans. 

235 


Venta  de  Cardenas 


From  the  Venta  to  the  end  of  the  great 
breach  of  Despenaperros  the  Royal  Road, 
narrow  and  ill-kept,  is  hewn  out  of  the 
mountain. 

We  leisurely  followed  its  smooth  curves 
and  sharp  turns,  each  one  of  which  opened 
a  new  and  impressive  vista.  On  our  right 
the  bare  walls  towered  straight  up  into  the 
blue  vault  amid  the  fleecy  cloudlets.  On 
our  left  was  the  precipice;  half-way  down 
its  side  the  railroad,  ribbon-like,  passed  over 
bridges  and  occasionally  disappeared  into 
tunnels,  and  at  the  bottom,  two  thousand 
feet  below,  the  greenish  boiling  waters  hur- 
ried on  toward  the  Guadalquivir  and  Anda- 
lusia. The  thick  groves  of  wild  olives  and 
scrubby  oaks  on  the  declivities  ;  the  luxu- 
riance of  ferns,  creeping  plants,  and  vivid 
grass,  studded  with  flowers  below ;  the  rigid 
barrenness  of  the  enormous  masses  of  stone, 
composed  a  finely  dramatic  ensemble.  Some 
of  the  scenes  each  turn  of  the  road  revealed 
may  have  been  more  picturesque  than  others 
—the  finest  was  perhaps  that  of  Los  Organos, 
a  piece  of  sheer  rock  four  thousand  feet  high, 
whose  regular  ridges  give  it  a  vague  resem- 
blance to  a  row  of  gigantic  organ-pipes — but 

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Venta  de  Cardenas 


the  whole  canon  offered  an  ever -varying 
succession  of  grandiose  and  superb  scen- 
ery. 

The  sun  disappeared  from  our  view,  and 
during  the  rest  of  our  tramp  through  the 
passage,  darkness  and  dampness  reigned 
absolute  and  all  its  beauties  were  obliter- 
ated. 

When  we  emerged  at  last  from  the  gloom, 
there  was  framed  between  the  two  sentinels 
of  Despenaperros,  looming  up  black  and  for- 
bidding, a  splendid  vision  of  Andalusia.  Its 
denuded  hills  were  transfigured  into  a  medley 
of  incandescent  glowing  hues  looking  like 
the  heart  of  a  volcano — under  a  glorious  sky 
of  melted  gold,  which  gradually  faded  and 
changed  into  opal.  Later  the  mirage  be- 
came something  mysterious  and  indefinable, 
cradled  for  the  night  under  a  veil  of  trans- 
parent softness. 

On  coming  back  the  moon  had  begun 
shedding  its  weird  radiance  over  the  gorge, 
evoking  a  fantastic  world  of  shadows  and 
lights.  An  arriero  passed  us  seated  side- 
wise  atop  his  donkey  and  vociferating  a  wild 
malaguena  which  he  accompanied  on  his 
guitar. 

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Venta  de  Cardenas 


"  Brother,"  said  one  of  the  Guardias, 
"where  art  thou  going?" 

"  Home,  man,"  he  replied  at  the  top  of  his- 
voice  ;  "I  am  going  home  !  Viva  la  gracia. 
Que  bella !  Que  guapa  !  Andalusia ! " 


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